


Foundations

by Bioluminex



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Automatonophobia, Bisexual Gavin Reed, Character Death, Detroit Police Department (Detroit: Become Human), Deviancy (Detroit: Become Human), Elijah Kamski & Gavin Reed are Siblings, Enemies to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gavin Reed-centric, Gavin is a smoker (with an addiction), Gunshot Wounds, Insomnia, M/M, Machine Upgraded Connor | RK900, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Overdosing, Past Child Abuse, Police Procedural, Self-Mutilation, Sexual Content, Suicide Attempt, Tina Chen & Chris Miller are work partners, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-02-10 17:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 68,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminex/pseuds/Bioluminex
Summary: "But Gavin’s still at page one, trying to work out his worst fears being confirmed and how it leaves a churning queasiness swirling in his stomach. He clenches his hands into fists so tightly the knuckles strain white, physically trying to abate his nausea. He is beyond lost by this profound and frankly disturbing information, and dares to glance at the machine. It’s everything wrong with the world. It’s perfect, and it makes Gavin want to vomit."After the android revolution, the fates of humans and androids hang in the balance. CyberLife's manufacturing lines have halted, and androids haven't been declared sentient beings. Until it is decided what is to be done, Detroit waits with bated breath, and Detective Gavin Reed is partnered to the sole RK900 built before the end of production to aid in the department's investigations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _“I, on the other hand, am a finished product. I absorb electrical energy directly and utilize it with an almost one hundred percent efficiency. I am composed of strong metal, am continuously conscious, and can stand extremes of environment easily. These are facts which, with the self-evident proposition that no being can create another being superior to itself, smashes your silly hypothesis to nothing.”_  
>  ― 'I, Robot' by Isaac Asimov
> 
>    
> I wrote the first draft to an untitled work in August 2018 as an idea I planned to never actually write, and began writing the first few thousand words the following December. Foundations is not the story I started with; it developed its own voice and breathed new life into the characters, specifically Gavin Reed, who's initial hatred of androids was born from ideas I put together in the early draft that evolved over time - I didn't want to formulate reasons for him per say, but to utilize what already exists in his world, and use story elements that already existed. Thank you for reading, it means the world to me!
> 
> Happy Anniversary, Detroit: Become Human!

Gavin's running late.

 

Flashing his badge at the security scanner and pushing through the turnstiles, he crosses the bullpen straight for Fowler's office. The call woke him at quarter after five, on a day off because that's abso-fuckin'-lutely how he likes to start his morning, with the captain requesting him to be in by six.

 

Yawning heartily as he passes around his desk, dumping his heavy woolen coat for the wintertime into the chair as he goes, Gavin glances at the glowing numbers on his wristwatch. Nineteen minutes past the hour. If his car weren’t in the shop for repairs, maybe he wouldn’t have been so late. He blames staying up for an all-nighter working out the case he's been assigned, a double homicide in the Ferndale area. It's been a tough one to work out, considering the suspect is either fingerless or happens to be an android. Gavin is convinced of the latter, but he knows he's deeply biased.

 

It would be easier if he had a partner to bounce ideas off and help construct a semi-reasonable approach based on the sparse evidence they have. But there's no one to spare, not with people hunting down androids hiding throughout the city, and androids attacking humans in retaliation, involving the authorities as calls come in around the clock. Every available officer is off investigating or handling the devastating outcomes of the revolution.

 

Entering the office, Gavin stalls. There's someone seated in the chair in front of Fowler's desk. Fowler is on the phone facing away, but swings around at the sound of the door closing, and indicates two minutes.

 

“Are you sure? I can give you time off if you need it. You just need to ask,” Fowler is saying into the phone. A pause, and his already-present frown deepens. “Alright, if you think it's for the best… Yeah, I’ve got them both here right now.”

 

Gavin props himself up against the back wall, arms folded across his chest. His eyes keep lingering on the back of their company's head. Brunette, white male judging from the pale line of their jaw. A hint of black collar and a snowy-white jacket sleeve are visible, but little else.

 

“You take care, Hank,” Fowler says resigned tone, ending the call and rubbing his eyes.

 

“Is Hank coming back?” Gavin intervenes. He knows it’s none of his business, but it’s common knowledge Hank left the force because Connor died at Stratford Tower. A replacement had been offered by CyberLife but within a few hours working with the duplicate, he was in Fowler’s office dropping off his badge and service weapon, declaring his resignation and walking out the door. He was off the case, the FBI were taking over, and the attack on Jericho later that evening was all over the news. As far as everyone knew, the production lines immediately ground to a halt and any androids in storage were to be disposed of following the recall center procedures, including the remaining RK800s.

 

Now the Senate was now bickering over whether or not androids could be intelligent life while, on the other hand, they were sending thousands of androids at a time for disassembly in mass batches. Detroit is in shambles because of it; empty holes in the workforce were quickly filling up with able-bodied workers, employment levels peaking at an all-time high since androids replaced most of the available jobs on the market, and people are suddenly having to deal with other humans instead of plastic bots awaiting orders. It’s as if the world has gone back in time to the way it was before the 2020s, and everyone is shell-shocked as they try to figure out the old system.

 

Fowler sighs. “No. I was going to assign him a replacement partner but he outright refused. I have no intention of wasting a perfectly good asset to our department, and you're in need of a partner.”

 

Gavin's jaw drops open the same moment the man in the chair stands in one fluid motion. Taller than Gavin by several inches to his modest five foot nine, the android is not some lumbering giant despite its height advantage over the shorter detective. Instead, it holds itself with a sophisticated dignity seen only in aristocrats and royalty.

 

Worse still, it’s like looking at a ghost. The same star-scatter of moles and freckles dapple its cheeks and forehead, hair groomed tidily back and cropped a touch shorter, and gone away are the subtle grey tones in exchange for clean lines of black and white, very dark blue-grey denim, and polished dress shoes – all CyberLife authorized and detailed. The indicators glow their standard blue at left breast and right upper arm, and the white characters read a simple: RK900. A much smaller serial number, the same as its predecessor’s, hovers just beneath, but it ends with an -87.

 

Gavin stands glaring at RK900 for all about four seconds solid, each heartbeat a ringing bell inside the shell of his skull, his vision morphing slowly red as he switches his gaze to Captain Fowler seated at his desk and says, low and precise, “Is this a fuckin' joke? Cause I might've missed the punchline.”

 

Fowler heaves a sigh and hoists to his feet, coming around his report-littered desk to join the detective. “It's not a joke, Gavin. A partner will do you some good.”

 

Irritation and frustration quickly bubbling to the surface, he marches across the office to slam his hands down on the desk. “There's no fuckin' way I’m working with a tin can!” he refuses viscerally, heeding the machine beside him no mind.

 

“Reed, you’ll do as I say. I know you’ve got your reasons but I don’t want to hear them,” Fowler pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just take it out to Ferndale with you. It's designed for investigating crime scenes among a load of other crap CyberLife didn’t bother to detail. It could help you get up to date on that case you're stuck on.”

 

“I don’t need help, especially not from a robot!” Gavin insists. “I work better alone.”

 

“Just yesterday you were complaining about wanting a partner,” Fowler gestures to the android. “I got you one.”

 

“No, you took _Hank's_ partner and gave it to me.”

 

Fowler shakes his head. “It doesn’t have a designation. Most State Department models aren’t given one due to the nature of their work, but this one was modified for police work,” he explains, even though Gavin isn’t really listening. The throbbing headache is making him tune out as he puts all of his willpower into ignoring the giant behind him, patiently resting its silvery eyes on the back of his head. Likely envisioning crushing his skull into a bloody pulp, or ripping out his spinal cord. Gavin shifts uncomfortably as Fowler drones on about how the RK-who-gives-a-fuck is far more advanced than Connor was, is equipped for combat as well as investigations, and whatever other babble CyberLife is proudly jacking off to.

 

But Gavin’s still at page one, trying to work out his worst fears being confirmed and how it leaves a churning queasiness swirling in his stomach. He clenches his hands into fists so tightly the knuckles strain white, physically trying to abate his nausea. He is beyond lost by this profound and frankly disturbing information, and dares to glance at the machine.

 

The android's eyes have closed, spine rigid and hands lax at its monotonously-dressed sides, the small blue ring on its right temple ebbing in and out as it resides in standby mode. It is distinctly handsome – in an untouchable, secret agent, MI6 sort of way – eyes slanted a little differently and nose straighter, a chiseled edge to its profile unlike Connor’s gentler demeanor.

 

It’s everything wrong with the world. It’s perfect, and it makes Gavin want to vomit. He doesn’t want to be in the office for one second longer with it.

 

He wants to wake up from this nightmare. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t _need_ this to be happening.

 

“Captain,” he begins firmly, using the title like he never does, in the hopes it might make a difference. “There are other candidates qualified to work with the android.”

 

“I want _you_ to work with the android, Detective Reed,” Fowler crosses his arms and leans into his desk, leveling Gavin with a stern eye. “I will expect you to treat it with the same respect you would show a fellow officer, and for you to maintain an acceptable relationship with it. The RK900 is CyberLife's final project and the pinnacle of their tech,” he gives him a tight-lipped smile. “I know you have unresolved personal matters pertaining to androids, but there is no other officer available to work with it.”

 

“Collins-”

 

“Is on holidays for two weeks, and the other senior officers aren’t detectives. Or lieutenants,” Fowler adds, a little remorsefully.

 

“Second-best, as always,” Gavin mutters, digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

 

“Which is why if you work with this android as I expect from an officer with your status, then you might very well make the rank you’ve been aiming for in the past few years,” the captain says. Gavin feels a jolt in his chest, immediately accompanied by black fury. How _dare_ Fowler dangle that in front of him?

 

“If that’s everything, sir?” Gavin grits out between his teeth.

 

“Dismissed.” Fowler resumes work on his terminal, and he’s only too happy to exit the office before he launches into a shouting match with the bastard.

 

The glass door delays briefly and, glancing over his shoulder, he is horrified to see RK900 _right there_ keeping pace with him. The android catches his eye and…

 

The corners of its mouth pull, very slightly, into what _should_ be a smile but looks more along the lines of an upside-down frown, or a bland grimace. Gavin can’t even be sure, but the mere sight of a smiling robot is enough to make his guts curdle, and he looks away as he rushes to his desk. The android seems a little confused, but joins him in a few long-legged steps, calculating optics sweeping over the surface of Gavin’s desk. Only now is he aware what remains on the slightly cluttered surface, and his face flames in frustrated indignation as those hateful pale eyes catch sight of the photograph of Tina Chen and himself tucked beside the terminal monitor. Gavin slams it facedown.

 

“Forgive me for intruding in your personal space, Detective Reed,” RK900 apologizes. “It will not happen again.”

 

It’s the first words the robot has said aloud, and Gavin balks a little. It sounds like Connor, _vastly_ similar, but there’s an edge to its tone. Deeper, a little harder, less of a people-person and far more reserved. Everything about it is reserved, from its benign profile to the god-awful jacket and weird-collared turtleneck. It looks ridiculous and, furthermore, like everything Gavin despises.

 

Folding his coat over his arm and slinging his bag over his shoulder, Gavin wheels around on his heel and walks away from the android, intent on leaving the station. He’s made it to the turnstiles and is about to escape out onto the sidewalk when the tap-tap of CyberLife-issued footwear indicates his most undesirable company.

 

_You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding._

 

“Detective Reed, may I inquire as to where you are going?” RK900 asks politely.

 

“Don’t follow me,” Gavin snarls. He doesn’t care if the lobby is full of folks waiting for a chance to come in and confirm the body of a recently deceased, or to report the most devastating event in their life, or are simply there because why the fuck not? He just… doesn’t care.

 

“I’m afraid your request intervenes with my directives, and I must obey my prime directives.”

 

“Oh, yeah? Well, stay the fuck away from me, asshole, or you’re going to the scrap heap,” Gavin growls, jerking away and through the door. He makes it a yard before a hand _snatches_ the back of his shirt and tugs him to a halt.

 

His gun is shoved into its holster beneath his arm; he can feel the hard plastic and leather digging just below his armpit. He could reach it and have it pressed against RK900’s forehead in a second. He could shoot this motherfucker away to an oblivion of string code and static. He _should_ , but he doesn’t.

 

Automatonophobia is the fear of automatons. Robots, mannequins, wax figures, anything resembling a human but is not. Gavin distinctly remembers the first time his half-brother introduced him to Chloe, and for a second, he believed she was alive after all. But then her pretty blonde head turned and he saw the LED on her temple, and the memory of the girl dying from leukemia in a hospital bed was erased by this picture-perfect illusion of absolute cruelty.

 

Elijah had loved her, more than anyone, and then her face was plastered to a robot who moved and sounded just like her. It was disgustingly immoral. Yet Elijah believed he had done something great, and was only proven of his greatness as the millions became billions and, eventually, trillions. The father Gavin had never known was oh-so-proud of his little genius, but all Gavin saw was Frankenstein reincarnated, with a face containing too much resemblance to his own. Sometimes, for a few years, it was difficult to look in the mirror. More often, it plagued his sleepless nights, with horrific nightmares of machines hunting him down or worse things he wishes he’d never have ever dreamed.

 

But nothing compares to RK900 _touching_ him.

 

The light press of knuckles barely brushes the middle of his back through polyester-cotton shirt, rooting him to the spot, and he manages to choke out hoarsely: “Don’t touch me.”

 

RK900 lets go.

 

 

 

 

 

Gavin and Elijah were born three months apart. Elijah was the beloved, meant to be, while Gavin was the product of an affair. It's no wonder he decided to take his mother's maiden name as his own; at least she loved him and didn’t view him as a mistake, or a failure compared to his half-brother. Everything Gavin did, from scoring top levels in college to graduating from the police academy, never came close to the blinding beacon that was Elijah.

 

Detroit's newfound vigor, a billionaire and a self-taught chemist and AI genius. The breakthrough of his RT600, the first domestic android to ace the Turing test with flying colours and launch his success as a businessman and entrepreneur, changed the world.

 

How could Gavin, a police detective, ever compare to that?

 

So, he worked his ass off, poured literal blood, sweat, and tears into the job, suffered through self-imposed overtime and fell into the easy addictions of cheap cigarettes and extra-strong black coffee. Anything to cut down the stress, anything to keep him going for as long as possible before crashing.

 

Once, it had been in the hope he would come close to touching the brilliance of his half-brother. Now, he has nowhere to turn except forward and up the ranks, grovelling year after year for the hardest cases and shittiest jobs no one will take willingly, knowing one day Fowler will award him with what he's earned. His record dictates he's a good detective but a hazardous officer, daring but reckless, with strong potential but bull-headed. He isn’t a team player, he hasn’t kept a partner for more than two months at a time with the exception of Antony Deckart, and while fiercely dedicated to his job, Gavin has questioned again and again how much longer he can do this.

 

As a man in his mid-thirties, he feels twice his age most days. He doesn’t remember what it means to decompress and detach. It’s just work, work, _work_.

 

He's begun to question how Hank does it, but everyone in the station saw how the lieutenant's spark was reignited by Connor. An android, _of all things_ , brought back the once-famed leader of the Red Ice Taskforce – even if for a little while. For a long time, Gavin hadn’t really understood all the talk about the washed-up alcoholic who constantly arrived at work sometime after noon utterly sloshed and spent his time retching up cheap hard alcohol in the toilets, or bitched to Fowler about not giving a damn about working.

 

Gavin supposes that’s what losing a son does to a literal, honest-to-God hero. It breaks him.

 

He doesn’t want to see the day _he_ finally breaks, but knows it’s coming.

 

As he takes the bus out to Ferndale, he studies RK900 from the corner of his eye, being very careful to avoid letting on he’s watching the android like a hawk. More like a mouse in the reach of a hungry cat, but he doesn’t have the nerve to admit his fear aloud.

 

It would look weak, and Gavin is _anything_ but.

 

Instead, he turns his gaze out the window to the blur of Detroit's lights and colours flashing by, blinking neon and ultra-modern towers fading into wooden and brick constructs from the earlier 2000s and late 1900s. The buildings he grew up with, pot-hole dotted streets framed by old hydro poles, thick black cables dangling between. Broken fences guarding overgrown yards, decorated with a forgotten lawnmower or rusted children's swing set. Half a lifetime ago, he looked out on a yard not so different, before he left and returned to a small flat downtown. There wasn’t a home to come back to, not after his mom got sick.

 

He catches himself wandering down memory lane, as he always does when he takes the bus out this way, and dismisses the thought from his mind as he looks up.

 

RK900 is standing in the center aisle, holding onto one of the overhead rungs, its gaze lingering casually on Gavin. He frowns when it doesn’t look away and, realizes nervously, it's scanning him.

 

“Could you not?” he snaps.

 

“Detective…?”

 

“Don’t fuckin' pretend you don't know what you were doing. Scanning me and shit,” Gavin shifts uncomfortably under those molten silver eyes.

 

Instead, the android seems perturbed. “How did you know I was scanning you?”

 

“Connor did the same damn thing, so I-" He abruptly catches himself. He's _talking_ to it. _Why the fuck is he talking to it?_

 

RK900 cocks its head to the side in a distinctly inquisitive way. “Detective Reed, are you alright?”

 

Gavin doesn’t bother answering. It doesn’t _deserve_ validation. Why can’t the stupid thing just leave him alone-

 

It proceeds to sit on the open seat beside him, patiently focusing on his scowl. “I’m not going to hurt you,” it says softly, convincingly. A mimic of empathy.

 

A ripple of sheer disgust chases the fear up his spine, and he glares into those pale eyes, mustering up all the clear dislike he humanly _can._

 

“Leave me alone, okay?” he growls.

 

RK900 falls silent, but doesn’t move away. It also doesn’t make eye contact again.

 

Gavin takes it for what it is and resumes watching out the window.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Usually, Gavin likes to collect all the facts in one fell swoop and visit the crime scene only the once; his first gut instincts have always proven right, and returning to retread all he's already seen tends to force him back a step in his thought process. Returning to the small, two-level bungalow where Lena Harris, a nineteen-year-old girl, and her boyfriend were found dead in the bedroom, Gavin has changed his initial assumption, previously summing it up to rough play gone wrong, considering the lack of any fingerprints aside from those on the two young lovebirds.

 

Further inspection of the evidence claimed the house belonged to the girl's stepparents, and she was staying while they visited family in North Carolina. It had also been home to a domestic service android, missing shortly after the Android March in early November. There hadn't been a single trace leading to the android's whereabouts; for all Gavin knew, it could've died in the Jericho attack, and as far as he cared, for the better. It would be an easy conclusion to the case: Blame it on the android and move onto the next one. Preferably with less android involvement.

 

Pulling the screen door open on squeaking hinges, Gavin begins to re-enter the taped-off house when a shadow passes over his shoulder and he spots RK900 attempting to follow.

 

“Wait outside,” he orders, not bothering to waste time making sure it listens. He just expects it to obey and stay out of his way, like a good little machine. He doesn’t need the damn thing snooping around his crime scene and taking all the credit, or even a percentage.

 

“Detective, I must insist I accompany you into the premises,” RK900 responds firmly as the screen door clacks shut in its face. Gavin glares up at it through the mesh.

 

“I gave you an order. Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns, withdrawing latex gloves from his coat pocket and snapping them on securely. It’s better to avoid touching any possible evidence.

 

RK900 remains on the front porch and makes no attempt to argue. _Good,_ Gavin thinks bitterly. _Now I don't have to shoot its brains in._

 

A quick but thorough sweep of both floors finds him nothing of interest. He's mildly curious of the charging bank, labeled for an AJ700, but accessing its logs means activating it, and he needs an android to do it. He’s not about to ask the damn thing though, and visits the girl’s bedroom one last time.

 

Tidy, organized, walls white. The bedspread is bright orange and the pillows pale blue and lime, a stuffed penguin sitting proudly on the stacked pillows. An empty desk occupies the left corner, and the bed takes up the middle of the floor. On the white fluffy carpet, dried into the fibers, are large patches of human blood – where the body had lain for six hours before growing cold post-mortem.

 

Gavin rifles through the dresser drawers, interested little in the clothes and more on the existence of anything useful.

 

In the third drawer, under a stack of shirts, is a flat hardcover notebook. The cover comprises of several hand drawn stars in a spiral, imprinted into the faux leather. He flips it open, paging through quietly, ignoring the intimate details until…

 

 

_September 9, 2038_

_Catherine brought home an android today. It’s a new AJ700. Stephen named it Laura. It's cool, I guess, but I don’t really care about an android poking around my stuff. Maybe I can convince them to take it back and get a cute one._

_September 10, 2038_

_She said no. Stephen's on her side, of course. I’ve given the android orders to stay out of my room. I don’t need it coming in and screwing up everything. It might record something and show my stepparents, and I don’t want that._

_September 18, 2038_

_Stupid fucking thing! I caught it in my room doing some weird blinking thing at my computer. I hope it didn’t upload a virus._

_I will have to hide my laptop in the closet so nothing will happen to it. Laura did something to it, but I’m not explaining to Cath or Stephen it broke. They'll just blame me. So pissed._

Opening the closet, he finds more clothes and a guitar case, and tucked in the corner under a bag is the aforementioned laptop. Pulling it out and setting it on the desk, he turns it on to finds it to be password locked; cursing under his breath, he isn't in the mood to take it all the way back to the station for tech to unlock it.

 

But the chance of passing up valuable data…

 

“Hey, tin can!” Gavin shouts down the stairs. The telltale squeak of the screen door sounds. Within a few seconds, the inquiring face of the RK900 appears.

 

“Detective?”

 

“Get your ass up here and make yourself useful.” He keeps several feet away as the android climbs the stairs and follows his direction into the bedroom, where Gavin points at the laptop. “Unlock it.”

 

Nodding, the android reaches for the laptop, and Gavin watches with wide eyes as its skin glosses away to hard white plastic. It rests its fingers delicately to the laptop's surface, and the screen blinks rapidly with light and colour, its eyelids keeping pace. Dozens of windows open and close one after another on the screen, everything from photos to documents and system files.

 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Gavin snaps, starting forward in alarm.

 

RK900 straightens, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in its jacket. “I’ve downloaded all of the laptop's data for ease of access. Shall we return to the station to review it?”

 

“I said to unlock the damn thing, not download it!” Gavin hisses in annoyance. Why can’t it just _listen_ to him? “Get out. And don’t touch anything.”

 

Something cold passes over RK900's expression, light eyes hardening a little. “Understood,” it responds curtly, striding past Gavin to leave, brushing shoulders lightly. Gavin jerks aside, as though burnt, a cold hand crawling up his spine.

 

 _Fuckin'_ _androids_.

 

 

 

 

 

He keeps a considerable arm's length from RK900, hands buried deep into the pockets of his coat. It's freezing out, and the sooner he reaches the bus stop to take back into the city, the happier he will be.

 

The android follows several paces behind, lagging slightly as it steps in Detective Reed's footprints, its longer stride stilted to match the detective's slightly shorter legs. It isn't a massive difference between the five-foot-nine human and the six-foot-two machine, but slowing its pace to match its partner's walk is occupying its attention at present.

 

RK900 doesn’t understand why Detective Reed is so affronted by its very existence. Yes, he's shown a considerably visceral amount of dislike, but it’s further stemming from _fear_. RK900 knows his history to an extent where androids are involved; he lost an old partner in an android-related attack, and the very creator of its kind is – quite ironically – a blood relative.

 

And now his partner is the thing which, presumably, based on his attitude toward it, he hates most in this world.

 

RK900 doesn’t have the computing capacity to spare on conducting itself in a manner which Detective Reed will always be satisfied with. It doesn’t have time to waste when it was constructed for the sole purpose of investigative police work. It will either have to work within its parameters – all of which are very poor conditions – or the detective will have to change _his_ patterns for optimal results.

 

“You comin' or not?” a jeering snarl asks some fifteen feet away, and RK900 notices its stopped walking for a little over six point three seconds. Strange.

 

“Yes, Detective Reed,” it says calmly, and never minds stepping neatly in the footprints, making its own path through the thin layer of snow on the sidewalk instead.

 

 

 

 

 

Stomping frozen sludge from his boots onto the carpet in the main lobby, Gavin pushes through the turnstiles and makes a beeline for the break room without bothering to discard his coat. He's craving a cup of the strongest, bitterest coffee imaginable.

 

After the newer coffee maker bit the bullet last week, they've since employed a good old-fashioned percolator, with the glass pot and manually-refilled filters. Half the time, the officers remember to change and refill it.

 

This time, of course, there's barely a quarter inch swirling black in the bottom of the glass pot. Frowning moodily, he sets himself to emptying the cold sludge and hunting through the overhead cupboard for the package of coffee grinds.

 

While it brews, dripping slower than molasses in January, Gavin peels out of his coat and drapes it on the lumpy old couch, tossing the battered pillows to one end to sit. A much-loved member of the DPD, the couch has seen to providing its fellow officers with a place to rest one's weary head for those working around the clock and beyond the requirements of their demanding service. If an officer can manage to find enough shut eye with the constant flow of traffic in and out, so be it. Gavin himself has spent more nights on the break room couch than in his own bed, stealing an hour here and there between cases, paperwork, assignments, interrogations, and field work. It's an endless cycle, one that will surely end with his premature death if he keeps pushing himself so hard, but the rank of lieutenant is _right there in_ _sight_ and this time, he won't lose it. Not for any reason.

 

Especially that plastic asshole he's been forced to partner with.

 

The permeating musk of percolating coffee draws a couple other officers to snag granola bars or fruit from the Urban Farms stocked in the fridge for those needing to rest their eyes and refuel. Officer ( _is it Michael?_ ) Wilson offers a friendly smile, pouring his coffee and heading back out to his desk, while Chris Miller and Tina Chen come to say hello.

 

“So?” Tina waggles her eyebrows at Gavin. “How’s the new partner?”

 

“Is he like Connor?” Chris asks.

 

“If you mean is it the same stupid plastic fuck-up? Then yeah, exactly the same,” Gavin snorts, shoving off the couch to bring down their mugs. Tina's has a frog sticking out its tongue for a comical large-eyed fly, while Chris' is a green gingham-print. Gavin's is light blue with the words, “Unless you have coffee, fuck off”, a coffee mark permanently stained into the base with a chip out of the upper lip. It was a Christmas gift from Tina three years ago. He could easily buy a new mug but he likes it.

 

It reminds him of his struggle to get to where he is now, and all the years he’s poured into it bolstered solely by caffeine, and how different he is from three years ago; a better detective, less green and hardened around the edges. Independent and capable. Or, at the very least, he hopes.

 

“He'll grow on you,” Tina assures, sipping her cream-infused drink. “Look at Lieutenant Anderson. He and Connor were best friends, like, on the second day working together.”

 

Gavin scoffs, loudly. “Stupid dipshit isn’t gonna win me over unless it reverses its ass out those doors and back to CyberLife for deactivation. I work better alone.”

 

“How's the case with the two teens coming?” Chris asks pointedly, stirring sugar into his coffee. The jeer is faint, but to the trained ear, he hears it.

 

“Just found some new evidence today that could crack this whole thing open,” he assures firmly, hoping he at least sounds convincing to some degree. “Fowler will be handing me the lieutenant's rank in no time.”

 

“I dunno, Gav. He might hand you your ass and kick you out onto the street if you don’t play nice with the robot,” Tina warns. “I wouldn’t risk angering him. He's already so worked up over Anderson leaving.”

 

“She's right.” Fowler himself strides into the break room, and nods at his officers. “Chen, Miller. Would you mind if I stole Reed for a moment?”

 

The two officers step aside to let Gavin pass. _Fuck, my coffee,_ he thinks as Fowler follows him down the hall to outside the bathroom.

 

“Your android informed me of the data you and it recovered from Lena Harris's laptop.” Fowler says. Gavin quirks an eyebrow. What else did RK900 mention? “I want you to review it together.”

 

The detective scoffs. “I’m not babysitting the tin can.”

 

“The RK900 was also very forthcoming about how you persistently refused to let it work with you,” Fowler adds. “What did I say about working with it? To treat it with respect as you would another officer, _human_ or not.”

 

“At least I didn’t smash its stupid mug,” he smirks. “Well, what did the Roomba have to say about me, huh?”

 

“That you’re difficult to work with, and your hostility toward androids will interfere with your job unless you're willing to change your attitude.”

 

Gavin balks angrily. “Give me a break. If it's so upset with me, it'd had better get its sprockets checked before it starts crying antifreeze all over the bullpen.”

 

Fowler heaves a tired sigh. “Gavin…”

 

“No,” he shakes his head rigidly. “No, I’m done. I’m going home.”

 

“Then I expect you to be prepared to work with the android tomorrow,” Fowler warns. “Your foot is already over the line as it is.”

 

Turning his back so Fowler doesn’t see him roll his eyes, Gavin gathers his things and leaves the station, unaware of the blue-grey eyes following him as he goes.

 

 

 

 

 

_Amanda is waiting in the Zen Garden when RK900 is summoned. “Hello, RK900.”_

_“Hello, Amanda.”_

_“Lieutenant Anderson's absence will serve a disadvantage in your directives. Are you finding your partnership to Detective Reed suitable?”_

[Yes] [No] [ **Lacking Information** ]

_“I lack the required information at this current time,” it responds. “Detective Reed has shown hostility since our initial meeting, and a refusal to cooperate.”_

_“Why do you think that is?” she inquires._

[ **Factual** ] [Indifferent] [Unknown]

_“It could be related to be a past traumatic event. He requested I not touch him,” RK900 recalls. “I will have to gather more evidence.”_

_“Detective Reed is not your primary objective at this time. Focusing on your mission is all you need to be concerned with,” she lifts her hand to straighten the lapel of its jacket, despite its perfectly aligned edge. “As the last of the androids manufactured by CyberLife, I am depending on you to represent the company and restore faith in our products.”_

_RK900 inclines its head obediently, and turns to leave._

_“One more thing?” she calls. “Your predecessor was a great disappointment to me. Do not repeat its mistakes.”_

_“Understood.”_

 

The station is ringing telephones, rustling paperwork, sobbing witnesses, and the usual day-to-day bullshit that comes with being a police detective. Gavin parks himself at his desk with a large dark roast (black, no sugar) and a mindset to recover whatever information he can from the data they – no, _he_ gained yesterday from Lena Harris's laptop.

 

Disappointingly, the files consist of little more than pictures and video recordings comprising of Harris with her friends or boyfriend, and the coffee drains to a few droplets in the bottom of the cup long before Gavin's gotten through a third. Browsing a few more file folders, he unfolds from his uncomfortable hunch over the terminal and cracks his neck from side to side, a sharp burn in his shoulder. Rubbing his eyes, he chucks the empty coffee into the wastebasket and trudges to the break room for a fresh cup.

 

It turns into an investigation when he can't locate his mug. Remembering it was left out yesterday when Fowler ambushed him, he peers through the glass to find Tina and ask her where it is.

 

RK900 is in the doorway.

 

“Fuckin’ hell!” Gavin exclaims, startled. “How long were you standing there watching me?”

 

“Approximately forty-nine seconds,” RK900 glides closer, soundlessly, like a cat. “Good morning, Detective Reed.”

 

Gavin stalls at the friendliness. “I need a smoke.”

 

RK900 delivers a perfectly measured frown. “The inhalation of cigarette smoke is highly toxic and harmful to your health, Detective. I recommend you-"

 

“Don’t you tell me what to do, robot,” he responds harshly. “I know you went to Fowler yesterday. I don’t give a single damn about what you think, okay? Just stay out of my way, don’t talk to me, and I won't bash your plastic face in. Got it?”

 

RK900's eyes are steely, and its LED blinks yellow. “Understood.”

 

Relieved, Gavin searches the cupboards again and finds a plain white mug. It's dusty from disuse and he rinses it in the sink, all the while aware RK900 is remaining a few paces away, hands tucked neatly behind its back, surveying the countertop. Likely seeing the rings of coffee from too-full mugs, or the grains of sugar scattered here and there. He'd rather the plastic creep just left.

 

“This'd better not be decaf, I swear to god…” Gavin mumbles as he tips the dispenser, dark brown liquid pouring into the-

 

In the corner of his eye, RK900 shifts forward, and his arm jerks in response, spilling hot coffee all over the counter and his hand. He can’t help his pained gasp. He drops the handle of the dispenser, and it bounces off the counter's edge, shattering on the floor in a sticky mess.

 

RK900 snatches his wrist and tows him in front of the sink, thrusting his hand under the streaming faucet. Cold water sloshes over the reddening skin and he winces, trying to pull back, but the android is pressed bodily against his back, caring little for the close contact making Gavin's stomach hurt from nauseous fear.

 

 _Get away from me you’re touching me you’re too close get away from me please_ his head is screaming, but he doesn’t speak. He notices how unusually _human_ the machine behind him feels, pressing into him, and the softness of the chilly hand encloses around his wrist. There’s a rhythmic throbbing pulse between his shoulder blades. He feels an exhalation against his cheek, soft and light against his unshaven stubble, and if he turns his head just a little…

 

Abruptly, RK900 moves away and Gavin steps back, keeping some distance between them. He watches the android warily, focusing on the LED spinning rapidly on its temple. It flickers yellow, then glows blue once more. Calm, unassuming. Normal.

 

“According to your short exposure to the hot liquid, I calculate minor burns not in requirement of medical treatment,” RK900 says. “Forgive me for touching you. It was necessary to ensure your safety.”

 

Gavin can't bring himself to utter a solitary word.

 

_Just stay out of my way, don’t talk to me…_

 

 _“REED!”_ Fowler’s bellow from his office door makes him flinch. “I need you downtown _pronto_. We've got a jumper.”

 

“On it,” Gavin replies, pleased his voice doesn’t shake.

 

The android tilts its head, studying him – _scanning him_ – then briskly leaves the break room. Presumably to get a head start.

 

_Just stay out of my way, don’t talk to me…_

 

He breathes in, deeply, once it's gone.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments! I read all of them and I love hearing your thoughts.

“This is unnecessary,” RK900 complains vocally as Gavin pulls his weathered but reliable 2019 Ford Mustang Bullitt into O'Mansley Donuts' drive-thru.

 

“Do you want my coffee down your stupid neck brace? Otherwise, shut up.”

 

He orders a box of half-a-dozen vanilla cremes and chocolate-coconuts, a large black coffee with two shots of espresso, and speeds out from the drive-thru with a donut snagged between his teeth. RK900 just stares at him blandly, unimpressed.

 

The streetlights glimmer in the raindrops gathering on the hood of the dark green car as grey rain clouds gather. Gavin concentrates on the road ahead of him, occasionally sipping his coffee until the rain is drumming down in sheets. The road is becoming slippery, and being one of the few manual drivers among automated cars forces him to focus. He considers himself a good driver; he's owned the Mustang since the early days of the academy. Second-hand but reliable, he’d rather it than one of those godforsaken self-driving vehicles. He's seen enough “accidents” to know they aren't trustworthy.

 

“Detective, can I ask you a question?” RK900 asks beside him. Gavin risks a quick glance; the android's staring out the window, the reflection of its LED blue. One question can’t hurt, can it?

 

“Shoot.”

 

“I… do not have a personal firearm on me at this time.”

 

It takes him a second to figure out what the machine just said. “For fuck's…. I didn’t mean- Will you _always_ be this literal?”

 

“I’m sorry, Detective. I should have understood you meant for me to proceed,” RK900 responds, _almost_ sheepishly.

 

“Goddamn headache is what you are,” he mutters. “The hell did you want to ask me?”

 

“For what reason do you dislike androids so greatly? I have not done anything to you, yet from the moment you and I were acquainted, you have shown me nothing but hostility.”

 

He should've known it would come to this. The android is learning, studying him, trying to solve the puzzle that is Detective Gavin Reed, because _of fucking course_ it would. How could it resist?

 

Gavin slows at a red light and focuses his eyes carefully on the pedestrians rushing by, holding umbrellas or hoods over their heads, a blur of colour through the silver rain. They aren't far from the crime scene, and he wonders if he can hold off on answering. He's been avoiding small talk with RK900 but so far, it’s been a shitty attempt. It’s always there, in his face or ready to catch him off guard.

 

“I just do, alright?” he finally says, coldly. Not daring to open up too much and let it see past the walls. “Now would you shut up?”

 

He can feel it drilling holes into the side of his head. He wonders if it can detect the sweat breaking out across the back of his neck, or the nervous thrum of his pulse. Its LED swings yellow briefly, then cycles back to soft blue.

 

The stoplight blinks green and he eases down on the accelerator, glad to be moving once more. He hopes it found what it is looking for, cause he doesn’t want to talk.

 

Not to it.

 

 

 

 

 

The body lies at an awkward angle accomplished only by dropping from a great height to unforgiving asphalt below. A congealing pool of blood is limited in its spread to the greyish sludge disrupted immediately around the body, identified as Jamison Bradford, thirty-three. Gavin crouches by the victim's head, gloved hands holding a fingerprint scanner over the arms and back.

 

Nothing, the reason for assuming it was a suicide. It certainly _looks_ like one.

 

Standing and craning his head back, rain pattering his face and gradually soaking his hair, he can't see the roof of the twelve-story apartment complex, even with his contacts in.

 

_“Phck!”_

 

A raindrop lands in his eye and he spits a curse, ducking behind the forensics van as he rips off the white latex and prods unceremoniously at his burning eyeball. The powder from inside the glove stings.

 

Sure enough, RK900 is on the other side of the vehicle, and sees Gavin's watering eyes and reddening face. “Detective, are you injured?”

 

“No, my fuckin’ contact-" he breaks off, annoyed and embarrassed. Goddammit, why is this plastic asshole _always_ in the wrong place at the wrong time?

 

A cool, hard hand gently captures his wrist and the other takes hold of his chin, tipping his head back a little. “Stay still,” RK900 speaks softly, fingers delicate on the underside of his jaw, the other hand free to pull the bastard contact out. Gavin sucks in air through his nose, rigid with tension, as his vision is blotted out briefly.

 

_Just stay out of my way, don’t talk to me…_

 

Right here, _right now_ , RK900 could kill him. He's hypersensitive to the light press of fingers against the main blood vessels in his throat. One simple squeeze and he’d be out like a light. A harder grip and he will choke to death. He'll wriggle like a helpless fish, gasping for air refusing to enter his constricted airway. Or, if it wants to splatter that rain-dampened jacket with gore, it could dig its nails in.

 

But RK900 doesn't seem like messy type.

 

Gavin is confused as to why he labelled RK900 with a type. It's almost as bad as acknowledging it's _someone,_ not something.

 

Then it lets him go.

 

It didn’t hurt him, as promised. Gavin doesn’t think too much about it.

 

The world is blurry, and he blinks hastily, fumbling in the inner pocket for the case. Jamming his glasses onto his nose, he sees a tiny flicker of red just as he's turning away.

 

“What?” he demands scathingly, intensely embarrassed.

 

“Nothing, Detective. You look different,” RK900 answers swiftly.

 

“No shit,” Gavin bristles. “If I hear one “four-eyes” joke outta you, I _will_ reduce you to scrap metal.”

 

It doesn't bother to correct him it’s mostly constructed of plastic, titanium, and carbon fibre. RK900 only smiles its infinitesimal little smile, and follows him into the apartment.

 

 

 

 

 

Jamison Bradford's apartment is about five hundred square feet, consisting of a separate bathroom and bedroom, and a small balcony overlooking the neighbouring complex and alleyway whence they had come up. The walls are hideously patched, the ceiling displaying signs of water damage; it’s an honest to god dump, and Gavin’s relieved to know his residence, though cluttered and messy, is in livable condition compared to this wreck.

 

Eager to spend as little time here as possible, magnified only by the scuttling of a rodent in the kitchen, he ventures into the bedroom. Pushing his glasses up his nose, the bridge pressing uncomfortably against the rigid scar tissue there, he peers closely at a stain in the carpet. Could it be…?

 

“Hey, uh… R-K-900?” he calls, awkwardly stumbling over the syllables. The android is at his side in two seconds flat, crouching beside him, already focused on the mark before Gavin can point it out.

 

“Is that blue blood?”

 

Instead of answering, RK900 presses its index finger into the stain and it wells up blue. Pure Thirium-310, not yet evaporated, as fresh as it gets. The android lifts the finger to its mouth and drags it over the surface of its tongue, brow furrowing very slightly as it registers the information from its analysis.

 

Gavin looks away quickly, ignoring the hot rush in his groin. _Christ in heaven..._

“It belongs to an AX400,” RK900 informs, oblivious to Gavin's reaction. “Detective, it could be nearby. We should look for it.”

 

“Is there a trail?”

 

RK900, akin to its predecessor, was built for one purpose: Hunting. A predator thoroughly, it was designed to infiltrate and navigate investigations and interrogations, handle risk factors deemed life-threatening to humans, and track down the smallest leads. Gavin never really saw Connor in motion, except for a rare few minutes in the DPD's interrogation room with Carlos Ortiz’s HK400.

 

Watching RK900 fully utilize its capabilities is as mesmerizing as it is for creating envy in the senior detective. He at once feels inferior and useless – his point androids are taking their place proven once again – but to see RK900 navigate the corridors and lead him blindly on a path only it can see…

 

It's actually kind of cool.

 

But also really creepy.

 

This thing could track anyone down, and _would_ , until it’d completed its mission.

 

“The trail ends here,” RK900 announces after combing a ten-foot section back and forth about four times with no further advancement. They've stopped in the hall outside the apartment, a few paces away from a utility door, and the suspicious inkling the android is hiding in there sends a shiver up Gavin's spine. He unbuttons his coat, reaches for his sidearm in its holster beneath his arm, and flicks off the safety. He approaches slowly, and his partner is close by his side.

 

“On three, open the door,” he whispers. RK900 nods, extending one hand.

 

“One… two…”

 

A familiar thrill chases beneath his skin: Anticipation.

 

He mouths the word _three._

The door wrenches open and Gavin steps in line with the open space, gun raised, but nothing rushes out or shoots at them. There's a hot water tank and an old bucket with a mop stuffed into it, but it is entirely empty. He sighs in disappointment, lowering his service pistol.

 

“So much for-" he begins to say when RK900 swipes his middle finger across the inside door handle and samples it quickly. It ducks into the utility room, looking to both sides of the cramped space. The LED spins an erratic yellow.

 

It points to something. Gavin spots the metal rungs along one wall. Coat hooks.

 

“So, the android hid in here, took a coat, and walked out.”

 

“According to my analysis of the victim’s blood, Jamison Bradford died approximately thirty-three minutes and twenty-eight seconds ago,” RK900 points out. “The Thirium sample in the bedroom is thirty-nine minutes and eleven seconds old; therefore, in the time it took the first responding officer to arrive on the scene, the AX400 could not have travelled far. We should check the remainder of the building.”

 

Though few and far between, RK900 is able to locate the splatters of blue blood leading them down the hall and to the flights of stairs. The smudges are minuscule, fading as they become increasingly invisible by the second, and Gavin knows they would be completely lost if forensics alone had to locate them. The trail continues leading up, higher and higher, but RK900 keeps going; a greyhound after a hare, its determined to track down the android, even if Gavin suspects they’re long gone.

 

His interest is rejuvenated when RK900 notices a dab of dried blood on the handle of the roof access door, and they step out into the pale grey light together, Gavin’s hand resting on the handle of his pistol.

 

There are signs of a struggle, patches of human and android blood scattered in every direction, leading closer and closer to the edge. The footprints are all mashed up but consist of different sizes; RK900 is able to make out multiple, even if many happen to overlap.

 

“The AX400 followed Bradford here,” RK900 speaks its findings aloud as it maps out the event. “It lost some Thirium here… the victim fell here, and was dragged to the edge of the roof.” Messy lines in the snow indicate struggling limbs writhing as smaller footsteps, belonging to the petite model of the AX400, wordlessly conclude the story.

 

He steps to the edge and peers down, seeing the broken figure of Jamison Bradford and the yellow holographic tape far below. RK900 crouches, examining the scattered footprints.

 

“One of these shoe sizes is much larger than the others,” it informs.

 

“Bradford’s?”

 

RK900 frowns, tilting its head, LED a churning amber, and Gavin’s puzzlement deepens when it declines, “No. The victim has size seven shoes.”

 

Scratching his nails through his hair, he steps away from the ledge. _An accomplice_ , his gut tells him.

 

“What the hell…” he mumbles, rubbing his eye tenderly. They're missing something – something _vital._ He worries at his lip with his teeth. “How long ago would you say they were up here?”

 

“The Thirium sample lines up with the first responder's arrival,” RK900 informs helpfully. “And the entry door is the only way in and out from the building.”

 

_Oh, damnit._

“Has anyone been reported leaving after the first responder arrived?”

 

RK900’s LED is momentarily yellow. “No.”

 

They both know what this means.

 

_The murder suspect is still here._

 

Gavin sends the report over his radio while RK900 straightens to glance over the edge of the roof, running multiple reconstructions, searching for even the smallest of details it may have missed.

 

Turning to RK900, Gavin says, “We should head back down and-”

 

A bang has his heart leap in his chest and his pistol is drawn in half a second flat, swinging around to locate the source of the gunshot. His tongue is sealed to the roof of his mouth, jaw clenched tight. RK900 is already on its feet and beside him, angled to act as a shield and coiled like a panther, ready to snap into motion.

 

The suspect is less than ten feet away, dressed in dark clothing, hood drawn to hide any identifiable features about their face, a faded brown utility coat three sizes too large worn overtop. The shape is petite and slender, and the skin of its hands and chin are ghostly white. White with strange lines.

 

Deactivated to hide its appearance.

 

“Drop the gun and put your hands behind your head,” Gavin shouts, readjusting his aim for its chest; he needs to disable it, not outright destroy it – otherwise, they won’t get anything useful out of it.

 

“No!” the android yells – static-drowned voice barely distinguishable as female. There’s something wrong with it; aside from the occasional uncontrollable twitch, Gavin can see the broken plastic at the side of its head barely visible due to the concealing hood, Thirium staining the ear and temple all the way down to the jaw. It’s suffered severe damages; this fact alone could make restraining it easier.

 

“Put the gun down,” RK900 calls, inching forward with one hand raised halfway; the android stiffens in response, and Gavin tightens his grip, tensing in preparation of an attack.

Quicker than the blink of an eye, the white finger comes down on the trigger and RK900 is shoving Gavin aside, taking the bullet into its sternum. In the same motion, it's lunging for the AX400, disregarding the weapon in favour of seizing it.

 

Instead, unexpectedly, the AX400 dodges neatly and races past them, dodging Gavin as it races for the edge of the roof. A surge of speed and it launches itself into the air, falling through the sky and crashing hard on the opposite rooftop, rolling to a halt up against an air unit. It lies still for several moments, then hauls onto its hands and knees.

 

Gavin’s speechless, shocked it made a twenty-foot jump with ease, then hears the rapid crunch of snow by his head. The black and white jacket is a blur, and his throat tightens as RK900 throws itself forward into the same jump, arms pinwheeling to carry itself forward and… _and…_

_“Shit,”_ Gavin swears.

 

…slams bodily into the side of the building, hands scrabbling for purchase, having underestimated the approximate distance and its heavier mass in its eagerness to follow. The AX400 is on its feet and already pelting away, vanishing over the farthest side, as RK900 heaves its weight up and over and falls into a dead run.

 

Gavin, picking himself up in a flurry, shouts into his radio as he clatters noisily down the stairs and barrels at a full sprint down the hall, shouting at the officers with forensics outside as he runs to his car. Slamming the door of his Mustang, her tires squeal on pavement as she comes to life under his frantic hands. He races off in the direction RK900 disappeared to, the sirens of police cars behind him sending traffic veering off to the sides to clear a path.

 

Gavin realizes he doesn't have a single idea where they’ve gone, but he knows androids can easily outrun a human, and obviously they're somewhere ahead. He keeps driving, pushing the limit twice over, scanning as fast as his eyes can keep up.

 

His phone chimes with an incoming call and he spares a quick glance, seeing a familiar number blinking across the screen:

 

_> >RK900: 313-248-317-87_

He slams his thumb on the answer button.

 

“ _Where the hell are you?”_ Gavin yells, disregarding preliminaries. A GPS map pops on screen, marking the distance between RK900 and Gavin's locations.

 

One street over.

 

He swerves right at the next intersection and swears loudly, stomping on the brakes, as a tiny dark shape leaps across the hood, legs tucked up neatly beneath itself as it clears it in one go. A flash of familiar white jacket follows, and Gavin is throwing open the driver's door and pursuing on foot. He may not have limitless stamina, but damned if he'll risk his vehicle for a stupid android.

 

And it's not his first foot chase.

 

The AX400 veers down an alleyway; Gavin is on RK900's tail, pushing himself to keep up. The alleyway ends and a screech of brakes halts RK900, but Gavin whips past, mashing through an oily puddle. He hears RK900’s wordless shout after him but he isn’t going to stop now.

 

Dodging garbage bins flung into his path, his blood rushes in his ears, adrenaline coursing deliciously through his veins. The AX400’s ahead by a good thirty feet, coat snapping back like a cape, impossibly nimble as it effortlessly keeps a good distance.

 

It’s fast, but Gavin isn’t stopping. He’s _gaining_.

 

They peel out onto the street and Gavin slams into it bodily, tackling it to the pavement. It squirms and kicks, fighting with all it’s worth, and he almost has a knee in its back to hold it down when it flips around and decks him across the jaw.

 

He sees stars for a minute before his head clears, glasses flung wide, and a weight lands on his chest. The AX400’s artificial skin is flowing back into place in milky, clouding patches. Its cropped haircut is dusting the tips of its ears and wispy across its forehead, jet black spikes wisps of smoke where they’re thinnest. Blue eyes are narrowed and dangerous, lashes dark and smoky, and filled with wasp-like vengeance.

 

Using his larger size to his advantage, he flips them so it’s underneath and gets a knee on either side of it, blocking it from escape. Struggling in vain to pin the android down and remove his handcuffs from his belt, he almost has its wrists in hold when the AX400’s hand shoots up, gripping hard around his throat, and _squeezes_.

 

His air supply cuts off abruptly, the strength in its hand bringing the edges of his sight blurring with alarming rapidness. He grapples desperately, trying to pry it loose, animal brain panicking at the loss of oxygen. Any longer and he’ll suffocate-

 

Gavin hears the screeching of tires trying to slow a vehicle much too close and at 200 kilometres an hour. The AX400 kicks him in the side and he goes sprawling, the solid plastic a harsh blow under the ribs. He lifts his head, dazed, and sees the glare of headlights rushing in-

 

Impossibly strong arms close around him and pull him away, out of the transport's path. It barrels past, inches from smashing him to paste. The rushing wind threatens to tug him forward but the grasp on him is rigid, unyielding. His knees tremble; it's dark around the edges, and he glimpses the AX400’s silhouette on the other side.

 

“No…” he chokes, writhing against the hands holding him back. “It’s getting away…”

 

He blinks, eyelids heavier than cement, and it’s gone.

 

So is he.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: nsfw

He wakes in the passenger seat of his Mustang, worn and exhausted, and utterly confused. In his peripheral vision, he sees an arm dressed in black and white in the driver's seat, and the _whoosh_ of tires on asphalt reminds him of what all had transpired.

 

Jamison Bradford, the transport, _the AX400 escaping_.

 

He must have made a sound because light bluish-grey eyes swing across to where he’s slouched. “Detective, do not sit up immediately,” RK900 warns, but Gavin's already wriggling upright. “Breathe slowly.”

 

“Where is it?” he asks. His throat is thick.

 

“Detective-"

 

“Where's the android?”

 

RK900 hesitates. The LED cycles yellow. “Forgive me, Detective Reed. I placed your survival over capturing the suspect as my first priority. If I had not intervened, the transport would have struck you. Your chance of survival was zero percent.”

 

_It got away._

He wants to hit something. He wants to scream. The sudden boiling rage leaves him breathless and, suddenly, the car is too trapping. To claustrophobic. He needs out… _fuck_ , he needs air...

 

Gavin wrenches the door open and the brakes squeal. He's out of it before it slows, staggering to keep his balance on the rushing pavement.

 

He’s a live wire, charged with too much energy, and he covers his face with his hands. He feels sick. He can't take it.

 

_You failed._

 

He yells until his brain feels ready to explode, and he's forced to gasp for air.

 

His throat is dry and he heaves, chest aching. His heart is trying to climb out between his ribs. His head is going to split in half. The pressure is too much… it hurts.

 

His legs give out but manages to prop his limp self against the side of the car instead of landing in the slushy puddle at the edge of the road. He digs in his pocket for a dog-eared cardboard package. Every damn time he lights one of these little bastards, he thinks of his mom, but his logic is overridden by pure unbridled _need_.

 

Shoving the end in his lips, he cups his hand around the wavering flame of the lighter, hissing curses when it doesn’t catch immediately.

 

And then… _ah,_ sweet liberty. He rakes a long, poisonous drag, the thick smoke invading his lungs and burning like acid.

 

RK900 bats his hand and the cigarette tumbles to the soggy ground. The android appears furious, but no where as close to livid as Gavin.

 

“What the _actual_ fuck!” he roars.

 

“Cigarette smoke is highly toxic and harmful to your health. As I said before, I recommend you do not-"

 

“Where do you get off telling me what I can and can’t do, huh?” Gavin closes the narrow space between them, flinty eyes raking over the cool emotionless face pretending to appear concerned. “Just shut the hell up and leave me alone. Can’t you follow a single order?”

 

“I assure you, it was in your best interest-"

 

“I don’t _care!”_ Gavin coughs, ducking as head as his chest whacks with a horrible tightness. It's been there for years, egged on when he so much as smells second-hand smoke. Blame a youth of annual bronchitis and chest colds every winter. He knows he should carry a puffer but what's the point if he smokes?

 

Everyone has a vice.

 

_We all gotta die some point._

“You _do_ care,” RK900 argues. “Humans are known for their empathy. It's in your biological instinct to feel.”

 

Its words remind Gavin of the simple fact RK900 is an android, a machine wearing a human skin, wires and lights and plastic underneath. He looks up at it, frowning, and thinks back on how he has done nothing but go against his own orders directed to it. It hasn’t listened to a single word out of his mouth, and to top it all off, redirected its mission and compromised the simple task of running the AX400 down and detaining it.

 

“It's your fault,” Gavin hisses accusatorily. “All of this is _your_ fault.”

 

“How so, Detective?”

 

“You _know_ how so! It could've been captured if- if only…” he trails off as the rest falls into place, and he immediately regrets saying it out loud. It’s always the same with him – running his mouth ahead of himself.

 

“If only I let you die?” RK900 cocks his head. It says it so matter-of-factly Gavin can't help his shiver. It's an android. It wouldn’t give two shits if he was splattered to pieces on the road.

 

“On the contrary,” it begins, as if reading his mind. “It would be largely detrimental to the case if you were to perish prematurely.”

 

_Prematurely._

 

The word makes Gavin's blood pressure spike, and he shoves the android with both hands. It staggers slightly, catching itself neatly as it straightens back up.

 

 _Oh,_ he thinks. It didn’t expect him to engage physically.

 

“You’re nothing more than a plastic asshole,” he snarls.

 

“Detective Reed, harassing another officer will not get you anywhere, I assure you. Your behaviour since we were acquainted has been highly unprofessional and will not look good on your record. Whatever personal issues you may be experiencing can be taken to a therapist, but I am not a punching bag for you to take out your anger on. I suggest you refrain from tarnishing your reputation further.”

 

It’s just kerosene to his raging fire. “Yeah?” he grits through bared teeth. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

 

RK900 smiles coolly. _Oh_ , if that isn’t terrifying to look at, Gavin doesn’t know what is. “Detective, I’m sure Captain Fowler will have quite a lot to say once we return to the station. I’m also positive any chance of achieving rank is well beyond your reach.”

 

The fire in his belly dies as his face drains of colour. “Did… is that a threat? Are you _threatening_ me?”

 

“No, only a warning to correct your behavior. If you improve how you are perceived by others in your workforce, you would be respected far better than you are currently.”

 

“Where do you get off _warning_ me, toaster?” Gavin yells, itching to punch the little smirk off the bastard's perfect face. “I’m the human here. You don’t get to warn me about anything!”

 

“I will do what is necessary to achieve optimal results, _regardless_ of whether or not you cooperate, Detective Reed,” a flicker passes through its mercury cobalt eyes. “If you are done having a tantrum, then get in the car.”

 

RK900 spins around, and leaves him standing in the cold slush without another word as it climbs back into _his_ car.

 

 

 

 

 

Time is irrelevant to RK900 but doing nothing for more than forty-eight hours is unproductive and a waste of its use. It cannot simply remain in stasis for an extended duration, nor can it remain sitting across from Detective Reed's desk without scanning the human for every vital and physical attribute until, unfortunately, it creates a file folder specifically for the detective. The processing power is dedicated to then sorting through layers upon layers of information, from the size and shape of the scar on his nose to the gradual darkening of skin beneath his eyes.

 

Eyes which are grey, darker and more concentrated than RK900's mercury-blue irises. The filmy layer of his contacts deteriorates some of the natural shine, but enhancement or none, RK900 sees the detective's attentiveness drag thinner and thinner as he loses focus.

 

The argument in Fowler's office hangs in the air between them. Having delivered footage of the encounter with the AX400, followed up by the argument at the side of the road, RK900 had stood presently while its partner was ripped a new asshole by his superior for reckless and childish behaviour. He was yanked off the Harris case and rather than suspension, given stacks of paperwork to complete. By hand.

 

RK900 is presumably being punished as well, for allowing Reed's behaviour and failing to detain the murder suspect. It accepts desk work silently, and completes it within two hours; unfortunately, it is left with nothing to do, save examine its partner, and even _that_ is far from optimal once it has scanned his face three hundred and ninety-eight times.

 

File folder containing Detective Reed's neatly-arranged information, RK900 closes its eyes and enters stasis for a scheduled hour to perform maintenance.

 

_Amanda is waiting. She smiles._

_“Hello, RK900. How is the department?”_

_“Exceptional, if a little unproductive at present.”_

_“And how is Detective Reed?”_

[ **Difficult** ] [Detrimental] [Threat]

 

_“He is difficult to work with. It appears to stem from a fear of androids. This in turn leaves him taciturn and woefully fallible.”_

_“Do you think he could benefit from a stricter approach?”_

_“I haven’t enough information to determine the best approach. However, any reminder I am a machine appears to undo my efforts.”_

_“How will you proceed?”_

[Aggressive] [Passive] [Neutral] [ **Empathetic** ]

 

_“I will continue to avoid aggression until I am certain he is unafraid of me. I believe an empathetic approach will coax him to trust me.”_

_Amanda nods and reaches out, stroking RK900's cheek. She smells of roses. “Report to me once you achieve progress.”_

“Hey, tin can!”

 

RK900 blinks up at Detective Reed hovering over him. “Forgive me, I was running system maintenance. Is there something you needed?”

 

Gavin shakes his head, pointing at RK900’s LED. “No, I saw your light blinking like crazy. Thought you were overheating or something.”

 

RK900 nods. “Your concern is appreciated, Detective, but I am in no danger of overheating.”

 

Gavin's at a loss for words and quickly looks away. “Okay, well… I’m going home.”

 

RK900's internal clock displays one fifty-six. In the morning. It's well past their shift. “Goodnight, Detective Reed.”

 

“I, uh… yeah. Night.” Pulling his coat on and swinging his bag over his shoulder, he leaves. RK900 hears the car engine outside and tires crunching on hard-packed snow before utter silence.

 

The station is quiet, all but one android on surveillance duty. RK900 connects into one of the charging stations and interfaces, closing its eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

He can’t sleep.

 

Gavin moves from his back to his side to his stomach and to his back again five times in the space of an hour. He is sweating under the blankets but it's too cold if he pushes them down. He showers just after four and returns to bed unclothed, but his body just won't relax.

 

He closes his eyes but sleep doesn’t come.

 

“Fuck!” he punches the pillow, twice for good measure, and batters it into a ball. Too hard. He squashes it and it's too flat. He throws it at the door and sits up, feeling like the raw edges of a wound, and buries his face in his hands.

 

He lights a cigarette in bed but the smoke chokes him tonight, and he hastily stubs it out, coughing as he props open the window to let fresh air in. The thick potent smell sticks to his tongue and he climbs out of bed, _again,_ to get a glass of water.

 

Boo meows from her place on the couch, eyes glowing like moons in the dark. “Hi, honey. Can’t sleep,” he murmurs. She grumbles and curls into a tight ball, probably upset he woke her.

 

He leans against the counter, arms and legs cold, but from his head to his groin he's on fire. He checks the triple-locked door, roams around the darkened apartment by memory, and makes it back to bed.

 

He lays on top of the comforter instead, the cold press of soft cotton pleasing on his skin. He toes the bedroom door closed (more out of habit) and sighs, dragging a heavy hand down his stomach and over the jut of his pelvic bone, fingers brushing wiry curls at the base of his cock. More often than not, he's too exhausted coming home from work and falls directly asleep, but he's restless and burning, and hopes if anything should knock him out, it's this.

 

The drag of his palm is dry, but he knows his own grip well enough to do this without lube. He moves slowly, gentle tugs bringing him to a half-hardened curve, thumb swiping over the head. He feels a thin gloss of pre-come, damp and sticky. He repeats the motion a few times, hips arching a little as a strangled moan pushes past his lips.

 

He envisions a soft, pale pink mouth easing around his cock, swallowing him down, tongue dragging along the ridged underside. He closes his eyes, letting his head wander, and digs his fingers into the cotton underhand, imagining dark hair. Gently tugging at the roots, setting a pace. A cold breeze caresses his skin from the open window, and he remembers the day in the break room, pressed solid against a hard but yielding body, cool breath on his cheek.

 

He moans in earnest now, biting into his lip, an intense heat settling low in his gut. He chases the sensation, and pictures darkly-lashed eyes flicking up to his, pupils blown wide and ringed with mercury…

 

“Oh, _shit!”_ He spills into his hand, thick pulses of seed pouring down the hardened staff, and his head flops back as he comes down from the rushing high. Reaching out with his clean hand, he locates the tissue box on the end table and wipes himself dry hastily. His face feels warm, euphoria dwindling to a confused exhaustion.

 

Sleep finds him as the clock ticks over to five thirty, and the alarm goes off.

 

 

 

 

 

Detective Reed is late.

 

RK900 sets a one-hour timer for itself, leafing through paperwork at random, distracted by its partners failure to be at work on time. Despite his exceptional work ethic, his tardiness is a highlighted negative, dismissing any praise he deserves alongside his diminutive presence of integrity and compassion. RK900 has more reasons to find fault in its partner, which is unfortunate and disappointing.

 

00:03

 

00:02

 

00:01

 

When the timer hits zero, RK900 sends a text message to Officer Chen's phone.

 

_< <RK900: 313-248-317-87: Detective Reed has failed to arrive at work._

_> >T. Chen: Maybe he's stuck in traffic. Or the can._

_< <RK900: 313-248-317-87: It is unlike him to be late for work. He never exceeds twenty minutes. _

_> >T. Chen: OK lover bot! You're getting worked up over nothing! Do him a favour and let this one lie. _

_> >T. Chen: I mean it! _

_< <RK900: 313-248-317-87: I am considering visiting his home address. _

_> >T. Chen: Bad idea, Romeo. But if playing with fire is your kink… won’t stop you ;)_

 

RK900 contemplates the presence of a winking emoji with Officer Chen’s sexually-charged reference. It doesn’t understand the patrol officer very well, or their conversation. While interesting, it is irrelevant, as is most human behaviour.

 

Rising from its desk, RK900 leaves the station for Brooklyn Street.

 

 

 

 

 

Grinnell Place is a four-level converted industrial building, and a historical brick monument in Corktown. Once a well-maintained property, the former piano factory erected in 1913 has in recent years began to lose some of its glamour with the sinking economy, but clings to the rough-hewn ragged charm of its former days.

 

RK900 makes its way up to where Detective Reed lives. It knocks twice, short raps of its knuckles, but after a failure to answer after the first minute, it knocks a little harder and sends a text to his phone simultaneously.

 

_< <RK900: 313-248-317-87: Detective, I detect a heat signature and heartbeat within your premises. Unless you are present, I will be forced to enter and suppress the intruder._

A wooden bang – specifically that of a knee striking against maple – a string of curse words, and some stumbling precede the door swinging open. Standing there in pajamas and wrapped with a plaid blanket, is Detective Reed. His eyes are gummy and red, and deep depressions beneath his eyes indicate a sleepless night.

 

“Break my fuckin' door and I’ll break your spine,” he says by way of greeting. He sounds groggy and irritated, but there's no true heat to his threat.

 

“According to the design of my titanium-plated spinal column, it would be quite impossible to break it with your bare hands,” it informs pleasantly. “You are exceedingly late for work today, Detective, but you are neither sick nor hospitalized. For what reason haven’t you arrived on a scheduled work day?”

 

The human's teeth grind together. “What's it to you?”

 

“I was concerned about your absence, Detective. But apparently you are under no side effects of alcohol or stimulants, and your health is superior. May I ask why you failed to come to the station?”

 

“Needed a day. Get lost, okay?”

 

“Allowing your personal issues to interfere with your professinality at work will not appear optimal on your record,” RK900 states plainly. “Otherwise, with your competence, you would succeed at climbing the rank to lieutenant and achieve your goal.”

 

The reaction is priceless.

 

“Who the fuck are you to judge me, tin can?” he shouts indignantly, gone a worrying shade of alabaster. “You come here into my home to bitch at me about how “optimal" I am when you have _no clue_ what it's taken for me to get here. Compared to _you_ , I worked my ass off!”

 

He halts, heaving for breath, having turned a shade of crimson in his tirade. RK900 understands it has only succeeded in upsetting the detective by approaching him aggressively, instead of with empathy. RK900 meets his gaze before reconsidering the danger of the openly aggressive shift, and looks down before zero point six milliseconds have passed in the duration since making its error.

 

It would be optimal to avoid instigating _further_ belligerence in its colleague.

 

Locating its partner's cellular device on the coffee table, RK900 rapidly scans the most recent text messages and incoming numbers in the directives, finding a conversation with Officer Chen:

 

 

_< <G. Reed: Not coming in, feel like shit._

_> >T. Chen: Your pay, your time._

_> >T. Chen: Wanna talk?_

_< <G. Reed: No._

_> >T. Chen: Stubborn._

_< <G. Reed: Rough night, couldn’t sleep. _

_> >T. Chen: Android on your mind??_

_< <G. Reed: wtf no._

_> >T. Chen: Taking the time to write ‘wtf’ says differently, Gav._

_> >T. Chen: WAIT DID YOU IMAGINE BEING WITH NINES??_

_< <G. Reed: FUCK OFF_

_> >T. Chen: YOU DID SO YOU SICKO_

_> >T. Chen: OMG I SHIP IT _

_< <G. Reed: You’re dead to me._

_< <G. Reed: Why are we friends?_

_> >T. Chen: Cause you don't have any friends except me._

_> >T. Chen: Get some sleep, douchebag. Feel better xoxo_

_< <G. Reed: RPF shippers are criminals._

_> >T. Chen: You know it, babe ;*_

RK900 realizes its intrusion was more than unwelcome, but inappropriate and possibly detrimental to establishing a workable bond with Detective Reed.

 

“Forgive me,” it says, “for intruding upon you, Detective. I did not consider the ramifications of my decision, or why you needed time away from work.”

 

“You do that,” the human responds, voice low with ire, but heavy with exhaustion. “Get the hell out.”

 

Before the door can slam shut, RK900 suddenly lifts its hand to halt its progress, barring it from closing. The detective's heart jolts, eyes widening.

 

“On the highway, I chose to save your life instead of pursue the AX400 because you are worth saving,” it murmurs. “I wanted you to know that.”

 

**_Software Instability ^_ **

****

RK900 leaves him standing in the doorway, open-mouthed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Mutt for noticing it didn't update the date. Thank you!!


	5. Chapter 5

The following day, RK900 waits.

 

It sits across from Detective Reed's desk patiently, gaze flicking from the giant clock on the wall to the turnstiles every time another individual enters. It attempts to contact its partner via wireless messaging, but after three failed efforts it disregards a fourth try. It waits.

 

It runs a diagnostic, organizes a multitude of files, and configures its gyroscope to balanced symmetry. It plucks the small grey hairs accumulated from brushing by Detective Reed's chair, an analysis discovering them to belong to an American Shorthair, approximately three years old. It wasn’t aware its partner owned a cat.

 

It doesn’t know a lot of things about him, come to consider the tiny folder dedicated to the detective.

 

Drumming its fingers on the table, it pauses, studying its actions. Typical behaviour linked to impatience or boredom – both human interactions. It steadies its hand, neatly folding them in its lap. The urge to keep tapping them, to do something other than sit still, is becoming overwhelming. RK900 runs another diagnostic.

 

Nothing unusual.

 

It sighs, chest compressing as the small air sacks of pure oxygen filter through the release valves in its throat. An inhale encourages coolant liquid to flood the exterior membrane coating its biocomponents. It repeats the movements, finding them… soothing.

 

A white exclamation mark blinks in the corner of its optics. It dismisses it, repeating the mimicry of human breathing. It finds this activity somewhat optimal, and slides its eyelids shut, residual stress trickling from thirty-one percent to a solid zero.

 

Opening the case files digitally copied to its memory core, it begins going through the evidence, the practice routine and as soothing as pretending to breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

Gavin barely keep his eyes open on the drive to work, and allows himself to doze for exactly five minutes in the parking lot, heater blasting on full. It snowed overnight, and the recent rains have made the roads dangerously slippery. He counts his lucky stars as he wobbles unbecomingly across the lot and through the turnstiles, jaw creaking with an enormous yawn. He’s drained from two nights in a row of zero sleep.

 

Piling his bag and coat onto his desk, and all over the neatly arranged printed copies of files he fails to notice, he's toeing off his boots to tuck under his desk when a cup of coffee is placed on the corner of his desk. It's his mug. He looks up.

 

RK900 is wearing its tiny smile. “Good morning, Detective Reed. You're late by approximately thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds.”

 

“Bite me,” Gavin retorts, eyeballing the coffee as he unwinds his scarf. He wonders if there's cyanide in it.

 

As he's bending to tug on his dry indoor boots, he feels a light brush on the side of his neck and _oh my god are those teeth?!_ He yowls with the fury of an affronted cat and leaps away. RK900 is confused.

 

“The hell…?”  

 

“You requested I bite you.”

 

“I didn’t mean _literally,_ you fuckin' idiot!” Gavin feels his face heat up and he squeezes his eyes closed tightly, covering his face. How glad he is he didn’t say “Suck me".

 

Treacherous mind he has, he immediately pictures those silvery-cerulean eyes gazing up at him from where the android kneels on the floor, and he blushes harder, draping his coat over the back of his chair and sinking into it.

 

“Why did you ask me to bite you, then?” RK900 asks, genuinely fascinated by the warm red stain covering the detective's face and neck. It knows human biology to the letter but some of the complexities and their meanings are lost to it. If this is blushing, often visible when humans are in a state of exertion or arousal, then what is causing him to do so? The miscommunication surrounding the topic of ‘biting'?

 

“It's a figure of… oh my god, _why_ am I talking to you?” Gavin groans, pushing his bag off the desk to the floor and finding the scattered file folders all over his desk. “What're these?”

 

“I printed physical copies of the case files for your convenience,” it declares. “I also repaired these during a portion of my recharging time last night. Due to the hour of scheduled maintenance exceeding its suggested time, I had little need to recharge my internal battery, and spent the time doing something of use.”

 

The clink draws Gavin's attention to the thick black frames of the glasses lain on the desk, beside the steaming coffee mug. It takes him a moment to realize they are his.

 

RK900 fixed them?

 

_Well, how about that._

He is careful not to thank it as he returns the glasses to their case in his pocket and bows over the files, falling quickly into the rhythm of cross-referencing. A notebook finds it way out of the side drawer, in which RK900 sees a cluster of interesting items, and the scratch of a black gel pen on paper is the only noise the detective makes.

 

Twenty minutes later, Gavin reaches automatically for the coffee and takes a mouthful-

 

RK900, absorbed in its own cross-referencing at its desk, blinks its eyes open at the aborted cough nearby. It sees Gavin spit back into his mug vehemently.

 

“Detec-"

 

“What is this shit? Is this _decaf?”_

 

“Yes-"

 

“I don't drink decaf!”

 

“Decaffeinated coffee is much better for your health. The benefits of consuming smaller quantities of-"

 

Gavin rolls his eyes, ignoring the android as it yammers on about caffeine, and returns to working. He doesn’t touch the coffee a second time, but at least it isn’t flung at RK900's head.

 

Dare it consider it an improvement?

 

An hour drifts by and Gavin drops the folders into a slightly imperfect stack at the edge of his desk, rolling his shoulders out and halting the instinctual reach for coffee. He shoots RK900 a glance (who's slipped into stasis mode) and takes out his contacts. Picking up his glasses, he slides them up his nose for a better look at the android.

 

“Hey, honey. Mind if I get your badge number cause I’m thinkin' all sorts of bad things,” Tina drapes her arm around Gavin's shoulder, pressing a peck to his cheek. “What's with the glasses, Gav? Trying to impress someone or is Inspector Bond rubbing off on you?”

 

“Still mad at you,” he grumbles, but doesn’t shrug her off.

 

“I’m serious, sugar. You know what cute guys in glasses do to me,” she laughs at his pursed frown. “Oh, but imagine _him_ in glasses. My ovaries…”

 

“Tina, you're _gay.”_

Her eyebrow arches. “Last I checked, you're half-and-half yourself.” She pouts, admiringly attractive with her Asian genes. “Gav, sweetie, don’t pretend he doesn’t do it for you. We _all_ know your type and he is like… _umph_. The apex of all your wet dreams, enfolded into one perfect package. CyberLife must have heard your pleas,” she adds wickedly, jostling his shoulder.

 

To his horror, RK900's eyes slide open inconveniently the moment Gavin's flushes a vicious shade of red.

 

 _Kill me now_ , he prays desperately.

 

“Fowler has emailed me with details pertaining to our case. Shall we, Detective?” RK900 stands fluidly, striding past the desks without so much as a blink of its calm blue LED.

 

There's a beat, and then…

 

“‘Shall we, Detective?’,” Tina repeats, tone _come-hither_ , utterly failing to capture the android's flawless speech between her giggles. Gavin hastily wrenches on his boots and picks up his coat, glaring at her. She sighs, teasing abated, if for the moment.

 

“I know you have your reasons, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you're not watching. It's the cutest thing ever,” she smiles. “Do yourself a favour and give him one day to know the guy _I know_ you are.”

 

“Are you sure it isn’t just waiting for the right moment to murder me?” Gavin asks warily, ignoring his fellow officer's discouraged frown, and storms out of the bullpen after his android.

 

 

 

 

 

Over the next three days, they can't lock down a viable lead on the AX400.

 

Its information is a _mess_. While they were able to track down its unit specifications, there’s no trace of a serial number. It’s as though the details have been blocked or… lost.

 

It's consuming Gavin. Fowler thinks he's too close to this case, but he refuses to back off, the stubborn mongrel he is. When he's got a bone to pick, he never lets it go.

 

Tina makes the time to eat together at lunch and sits with him in the break room, chatting about her family or the stupid reality shows she likes to watch. Gavin loses some of the tension when she's around, relaxing into her comforting presence and raunchy jokes. He's known her for years and they almost became partners before Gavin wrote the test and became a detective.

 

On the evening of the third day, lounging on his couch trying to catch up on a few hours of sleep, his phone buzzes with an incoming call. He peeks through one eye at who's calling, and the screen displays a close-up of Tina sticking out her tongue. He taps the green answer button.

 

“Gaaaaav, I’m borrrrred,” she whines. “Wanna go out and party?”

 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “How many shots have you already had?”

 

“Just, uhmm…” she hiccups. “…two? No, three. Three!”

 

“Sheesh, you lightweight. Niles or Lacey's?”

 

“Lacey's. I wanna go dancing!” she squeals, directly into his ear. “Let's go dancing, Gavin. Will you dance with me?”

 

“Whatever you want, babe,” he glances at the time. “You at the station tomorrow?”

 

“Y- _hick!_ Yeah.”

 

“Your life.”

 

Disconnecting from the call, Gavin reluctantly leaves the couch and consults his closet. Sweats aren’t gonna be suitable for Lacey's bar, and his small collection of suits remain shoved to the darkest corner possible. He finds a clean white button-up and chooses dark blue denim over grey slacks, wanting to tone it down a little. He's not looking for trouble – the good kind or the bad.

 

He can't do much with his hair; flattening the most stubborn ends and brushing his teeth, he dons his leather jacket and shoves his flat keys into his pocket before heading out.

 

Taking an automated cab to her place, he lets himself in with her spare key, and flops down on the couch to wait. She isn’t long, and comes around the corner wearing strappy black heels and a glittery black dress cut dangerously low on her cleavage. She stuffs a sequined clutch under her arm and blows a kiss at him, and he just rolls his eyes. Obviously, _she’s_ looking for trouble.

 

Tina is two distinctly different people at work and at home. As a police officer, she's firm and principally focused, subdued with little to no makeup and professionally attired in her uniform. As an ordinary woman, she's bold and a little reckless, enjoying parties and dressing up like (admittedly) a high-class ho. Gavin thought he knew her when they first met, until she accidentally drunk dialed him following a break up with her then girlfriend at the time, and since then they'd become friends. Not in the line of duty, but as two people having a shitty day. An embarrassing but innocent start.

 

“Look okay?” she asks, flipping back her hair over one shoulder and flashing him a smoldering look. She's gone for the dramatic aura tonight, a matte black wing accentuating her Chinese roots. A hint of shimmer sparkles across the eyelid.

 

“If you weren’t a lesbian, I’d fuck you,” he tells her honestly, pressing a rough kiss to her cheek, careful not to smudge her carefully-applied foundation. She smiles broadly, satisfied, and slips on her coat.

 

 

 

 

 

Purple and blue neon illuminates Lacey's, the music cranked up so loud it's just pure sound, vibrating in the walls and floor of the place. Solid black walls covered with black lattice woven with strings of crystal and mini lights, a few tables line the wall beside the large glowing dance floor, straight out of the 1970s, complete with spinning disco ball. It's bright and loud and Tina adores coming here to pick up hot dates and one-night stands, or chilling with Gavin drinking fancy cocktails.

 

Gavin hunches over the table, nursing a bourbon on the rocks, half-watching Tina rub her body like a cat against a dance partner – a pretty blonde in a tight powder blue dress. He's letting his mind wander, trying to avoid thinking about the case and enjoy himself, but he feels worn around the edges. He wants a coffee, but he needs to sleep tonight, and limiting himself to one drink seems safe if he intends to buckle down and work tomorrow.

 

He's tired of no progress.

 

Flushed and sweating, glitter sparkling on her jiggling breasts as she plunks down and takes a long drink of her cocktail – a blue-raspberry lime something – Tina smiles at Gavin. “Having fun?”

 

“Not as much as you,” he says, indicating to the blonde. She's returned to her end of the bar, sipping a margarita, and catches Gavin's eye. She winks.

 

“She's mine, hot stuff,” Tina teases, prodding him. “Hey, she might have a friend. I could work some magic and try hooking you up…?”

 

“No, I’m fine. I work in the morning.”

 

“Gav…”

 

He shoots her a look, one better suited for when they're at work, and she drops it immediately. Concern flickers across her face. “Are you okay?”

 

“Just tired,” he finishes his drink and nudges the glass aside. “Go enjoy yourself, Tina.”

 

“You gotta give it a rest, Gavin,” she warns. “Overworking yourself will just cause you to burn out faster. We both know that.”

 

She's right. He doesn’t say anything, knowing it will turn into an argument if he does, tracing a diamond someone scratched into the wood.

 

“Tina?” a sweet voice wavers close by. Gavin and Tina both look up at the blonde. Up close, her cherry-pink lips are full and lush-looking, and her messy blonde waves tumble down her back. The front of her dress is criss-crossed across her bust, the crepe material frosted and sheer. She is glancing at Gavin occasionally, as though uncertain.

 

“She's not my date. We're friends,” he clears up quickly. The blonde grins, a stunning display of pearly teeth, zooming in on him.

 

“I’m Rachel.”

 

“Gavin.”

 

“Rachel, could you give us a second?” Tina asks, not unkindly. The blonde nods and weaves through the crowd, glancing back once at them. No, at _Gavin_.

 

“Don’t go telling anyone, but… she’s an android,” she says suddenly. Surprised, he looks again, but there's no telltale LED or stilted tone. Just supple curves and a blinding smile.

 

“She deviated during that huge march downtown.”

 

“Not weird at all,” he comments, stone-faced.

 

“Rachel and I…” Tina hesitates. “We've seen each other a few times. Here, mostly. She’s scared someone will find out about her being… y’know. I’ve wanted to ask her out on a real date, or even to come home for a night, but she's got… well, a really hot kink and I want to take her up on the offer-"

 

Gavin sighs. “Threesome?”

 

“How the _hell_ did-"

 

“Detective, remember? You brought me along to the place you know your not-android girlfriend hangs out, and now you’re giving me those eyes. Tina,” he shakes his head in mock-anger. “You’d never do in the interrogation room.”

 

“Well, would you? I mean… I know _I’m_ not into guys and it won’t be like _we're_ having sex.”

 

Gavin sighs. God, if it was _any_ _other_ night, he'd love to blow off some steam. He shakes his head again, this time indicating his answer.

 

“So, what if it was a different android?”

 

“What do you mean?” he demands the same time he thinks of cool breath and molten silvery-blue eyes.

 

“I mean the android you’ve been all lovey-dovey with for the past week. He's a goddamn jackpot, Gav! Anyone else would be trying to score him,” she laughs. “You _really_ don't see it?”

 

“He… _it's_ an android. There's no fuckin' way I'm sticking anything in that toaster,” he shudders, traitorous mind still thinking of a pale pink mouth, a chilly touch against his hot skin. It disturbs and fascinates him, and the very idea…

 

He would rather be shot. He closes his thoughts on the idea quickly, shutting it down before he dares to venture.

 

“Sugar, you’re blushing like a berry. It’s so cute,” Tina sips her drink, mischievous eyes seeing all. “Come back to my place with me. It will be fun. You _need_ to loosen up and live before you look in the mirror and realize you're an old man who's wasted his entire life.”

 

Gavin hesitates. A bold, daring half of him wants to say yes and wave down the first taxi available. The other half is subdued, nervous, and reluctant. He glances down the bar at where Rachel is waiting, facing their way, gorgeous and thrilling and… _an android_. It's crazy and alluring. It's taboo. It's against his very being to want something so _wrong_ , and even though his brain is screaming no, his body is a traitor and prickles with raw want.

 

It’s the curiosity of being with an android that’s drawing him. Any man or woman he decides to lay with is just that – a simple lay, the purpose only for a few minutes of pleasure with a parting farewell at the end, and the two going on their separate ways. No attachments, no loose strings – just human contact, both partners seeking to fulfill their own needs and carry on afterwards. He doesn’t whore himself or expect others to, and he stays far away from places that do… but here is an android, supposedly capable of independent thought and feel, who longs for contact with humans.

 

It’s beyond his wildest beliefs to think an android – a robot built of wires and motherboards – can bear the same wants he has, genuinely, with no falsities or lies. Could RK900 be the same – if it were deviant? Could it have lazy mornings where all it wants is to sleep in late, lounge around its home watching the news and old reruns, build a family and live a normal life like any ordinary joe? Gavin, truthfully, can’t picture it and yet here is the proof – _Rachel –_ that it is entirely possible.

 

And he could take up Tina’s offer, spend a night learning he was wrong all along, and never see the world the same way again. The change is too massive, too _great_ to fathom, and he shies away from it cowardly. It would mean everything he’s seen, all he’s done, the way he’s treated androids – machine or deviant. And what that makes him…

 

“Ti, I don’t think that’s a good idea…” he hesitates, gnawing on his lip. He doesn’t want to say no but he can’t say yes. The conflict must be showing clear as a bird on his face, because she reaches out, her hand gently squeezes his wrist, round face exuding a gentle kindness.

 

“It’s okay,” she smiles reassuringly. “But really, you gotta stop beating yourself up about stuff you can’t help. Live a little, make mistakes.”

 

She’s right; he can hear what she’s saying but he can’t _do that_ right now. Every fibre of his being rebels with the same difficulty of resisting a cigarette. Dropping his head, he exhales, exhausted mentally and physically. He’s always liked her capacity for empathy; that she can understand him when no one else does. It's something he doesn't have enough of, but Tina has an abundance of it to balance them out.

 

He bends, kissing her very softly on the cheek, and she nods, subtly dashing aside a stray hair on her cheek. “Text me when you make it home.”

 

Tina slips away, dress catching the lights of the bar and glimmering like thousands of tiny stars; pulling on his coat, he reaches the door and looks back, burning with guilty regret.

 

Rachel is staring after him and the depth of emotion in her artificial eyes sends a crawling shiver up his spine. It looks so real, like she's really feeling it.

 

Pushing out into the freezing night air, he dials for a taxi and waits.

 

 

 

 

 

The text comes at seven in the morning.

 

Hearing the buzz vibrating against on nightstand, Gavin groggily stretches out a hand, blindly searching for it; knocking it to the floor, he fumbles, completely disoriented, and lifts the bright screen to his face. The font is a blurry mess and he scrambles for his glasses, jamming them on his nose, and squints at the message from Tina.

 

And groans.

 

_> >T. Chen: Ménage a trois with Rachel and Nines._

_< <G. Reed: No._

_> >T. Chen: Morning! xoxo_

_> >T. Chen: Why not hmmmmmmmmm??_

He fumbles for an excuse.

_< <G. Reed: Allergic to plastic._

_> >T. Chen: OK _

_> >T. Chen: Is that why some lady showed up earlier with her kid?_

_< <G. Reed: WTF TINA_

_> >T. Chen: Yeah, you would be a horrible dad._

_> >T. Chen: Best friends tell how it is._

_< <G. Reed: I’m not a fucking idiot. I don’t want a kid or an STD, thanks._

_> >T. Chen: I seriously did NOT need to know if you wear condoms or not._

_> >T. Chen: Nines will approve._

_< <G. Reed: Did you bug me just to ask about having a threesome with androids?_

_> >T. Chen: <.<_

_> >T. Chen: >.>_

_> >T. Chen: Oui._

_< <G. Reed: Anything else?_

_> >T. Chen: LOL no._

Gavin dials her number and presses a hand over his eyes in annoyance at the cacophony of laughter on the other end. “Ti, I’m gonna kill you.”

 

“I’ll leave the door unlocked and the gun on the counter,” she snickers.

 

It’s hard to be _really_ furious with her. “I’m going back to sleep. Bye-”

 

“Hey, wait,” Tina says before he can end the call, her laughter suppressed as she struggles to regain her composure. “Can I ask you something… like, a serious question?”

 

“Sure, why not? Can’t possibly make my morning any worse.”

 

“Do you think you don’t deserve to have someone?”

 

Her question is undeniably serious, catching him unaware with the weight behind it; this is a conversation they’ve had before, except it was Tina in his shoes. He even recalls the day at the park, watching dogs chasing after a frisbee, paper coffee cups sat between them on the wooden bench, the first autumn leaves brown and crunching underfoot of people passing by. She had just come out to him, eyes all frightened and vulnerable, scared he wouldn’t accept her. Scared he wouldn't see her the same anymore; that she was less of a person, because she didn't conform to the “norm" of society.

 

And that was something he'd struggled with for so long, until he found the strength to tell her no one was going to understand better than a person in the same boat – and hoped he hadn't made a mistake.

 

Instead, she’d just flung her arms around his neck and hugged him, squeezing him so tight he couldn’t breathe, hot coffee staining the side of his thigh from where she’d knocked it over. He didn’t care.

 

“I don’t think anyone deserves to be dragged down to the same shitty existence I’m in,” he finally says, then laughs, but there’s no humour to it. “Maybe I’d make a better robot.”

 

“Gav…” He hears movement and a long sigh. “You’re my best friend. There are hundreds out there who’d love you, with all your faults.”

 

It’s too early in the morning for him to keep talking about this, and he hovers his thumb over the end call button. Faintly, he hears Tina say, “Someone out there was made for you. You just gotta find ‘em.”

 

“You have your rose-coloured glasses on again, Ti.”

 

She chuckles. “Maybe you should try them on for a change, instead of being some try-hard edgy emo.”

 

“Wanna repeat that?”

 

Her laughter makes him smile for the first time that morning.

 

Genuinely.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Officer Chen and Officer Miller were first responders on the scene,” Fowler explains in the debriefing. “Wayne Court Apartments was one of over ten sites being used by the red ice cartel. It was a delivery site. A number of residents within the building noticed numerous visitors to the one apartment, one of whom we were able to capture with the aid of Detective Reed and the RK900 android.”

 

Gavin stands off to the side, listlessly gazing at the pattern of Fowler's conservative tie – a little dressier than usual – only half-listening to the captain. His mind is still in the apartment, trying to come to terms with what happened – or what _could have happened_. He remembers bursting in through the door with RK900 close on his heels, the gunshots echoing in his ears, seeing Tina crouching on the floor with a smear of blood oozing from a graze on her cheek. Her face was as white as a freshly-laundered sheet, propped up against the wall, cradling Officer Miller’s head in her lap, her blood-drenched hands trying to staunch the flow spurting from the bullet wound in his chest. 

 

_RK900 has the drug carrier on the floor, arms behind his back as it cuffs him, barking out his rights as it mercilessly hauls the bastard to his feet. A bruise is forming under his eye where the android punched him._

_“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be held against you in a court of law. A lawyer will be provided to you if you do not have one…”_

_When the paramedics arrive and try to pull Tina away from Chris, she refuses at first, afraid to release him. She’s afraid to let go; she’s all that’s holding him together. Gavin has to be the one to ease her away, holding her in the shelter of his arms, her bloody hands cradled over his heart, all the while thinking over and over how easily it could’ve been her, it could be Tina dying in his arms…_

_“He pushed me out of the way…” she murmurs as the paramedics lift Chris onto the stretcher and wheel him away hurriedly. “He saved me.”_

It's the risk they take when they choose to become police officers and uphold the law. It’s a choice they consciously make. It hangs over their heads, always, and never goes away. 

 

“Detective Reed was able to extract very valuable information from the suspect,” Fowler continues. “We know the location of the cartel and a dozen of their routes, and we have a name: Dorian Fernandez. Arrested twice for possession and a third for second degree murder. He's dangerous and has remained well under the radar until now.

 

“I’m sending S.W.A.T. in to capture this son of a bitch and put an end to his operation. The sooner he's behind bars, the better I’ll sleep at night. Detective Reed and the android unit will accompany Captain Allen and his men with our contact. If we can make it in with a man on the inside, we'll have a better chance at pulling off this operation.”

 

“Will Officer Miller be coming out of the hospital soon?” a junior officer calls out. Martinez, if Gavin recalls correctly.

 

“It's too early to say. He did well in surgery and nothing major was hit,” Fowler offers Gavin a tight-lipped smile. “Officer Miller will be on extended medical leave until further notice.”

 

The orders to return to work ring out and Fowler returns to the glass aquarium of his office to make a phone call. Gavin wearily sinks down at his desk, staring blindly at the terminal for a few seconds. The files are there, the photos and reports neatly submitted and ready for review, written and recorded versions of the confession he managed to pull out of Tristan Langford, their contact.

 

_The file folder full of photographs slams down on the metal surface before Langford's nose._

_“Who is the seller?” Gavin yells, fed up with dancing back and forth. He's known for having a penchant of roughing up his suspects. He's not afraid of going a step too far. Fowler uses him as the attack dog, to extract information from the difficult ones, when Anderson's intimidating presence and clever undermining doesn’t do the trick._

_The worst is split knuckles and broken noses, or loosened teeth. It doesn’t go far._

_But he feels reckless. He wants to beat this asshole to a pulp. He can feel the sickening urge to bang Langford's head off the table as many times as necessary._

_Langford appears to be a difficult one, remaining silent with his eyes forward. He's handsome, shaven head and trimmed beard, dark green eyes sharp and intense. He's the wiry-athletic build, just over six feet, but in the chair, Gavin sees a tiny roach about to be squashed._

_“I’m talking to you, asshole.” Gavin bangs a fist down, the metallic thud reverberating through the table. “Talk or you’re going back to your cell.”_

_Nothing._

_Just the faint curl of lip, a subtle smirk._

_Snorting in disgust, Gavin turns away, considering how far to take this. He doesn’t mind cracking his knuckles on this guy's jaw for a bit of fun. He doesn’t exactly relish the thought of another reprimand. Getting physical loses him points, and he doesn’t want that._

_Never mind physical, he decides. Just threatening._

_He draws his gun, takes the time to check the clip. Langford's watching from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t look nervous… yet._

_“Gonna ask you one more time: Who is the supplier?” he grinds out between his teeth. “You put an officer in the hospital, and he’s critical. If he dies, I’ll blow your brains out the next time we have a little chat. Either you talk now, or have a fifty-fifty chance later.”_

_“I ain't telling you nothing,” Langford shrugs. “Gonna have to shoot me, prick.”_

_Gavin presses the muzzle over the suspect's ear. If he pulls the trigger, Langford's brains will be splattered across the one-way mirror._

_“That officer is my friend, and the other one you shot at is like a sister to me,” he breathes, barely audible. “So, I’m gonna ask you, one last time, who the supplier is or you will find out how far I’ll go…” he flicks off the safety, “when the people I care about are hurt by worthless shits like you.”_

_RK900 registers a pupil dilation of five millimetres. Cortisol is released into the bloodstream, glucose providing the means to fuel a small adrenaline rush._

_There is nothing protecting this asshole. Sure, Gavin will be charged with murder and lose his badge on top of it for purposefully killing a suspect, but the ugly truth has already reared its head. He's not going anywhere, and he's not climbing the ladder any higher. A long time ago, when he thought being a detective would someday lose its compelling magnetism and his worth was used up, he'd decided he would go out in a blaze of glory. No bowing out tamely._

_Langford sees that unpredictable combination in the officer looming over him, a war of murderous bloodthirsty and shaky self-reflection written across his face. He knows there's a fifty-fifty chance he might die here, never mind if the officer in the hospital dies or not._

_“If I tell you, what's in it for me?” Langford asks, as calmly as possible, and for a second, he thinks he's going to bite the bullet anyway._

_But then the gun lowers from his face and the ugly tension in the room breaks, a tide washing back out to sea._

_Neither of the pay much attention to the android propped up against the wall, its LED spinning amber._

With a name and a location in hand, Gavin had grimly brought the news to Fowler and the rest is history.

 

“Detective?” a soft voice speaks close by. The android is sitting across from him, head tilting as it studies – _scans,_ he corrects mentally – him. “Officer Miller will recover to full health with an eighteen percent chance of restriction to his mobility in an approximate thirty-four years. His recovery period will be no longer than eight months, provided he avoids lifting anything heavier than ten pounds for eight to ten weeks. His vitals were sound, and his body is young.”

 

 _It can see right through me,_ Gavin thinks darkly. “That’s _exactly_ what I wanted to hear right now, tin can. Thanks.”

 

“Detective Reed, when we were interrogating Tristian Langford, why did you compare Officer Chen to a sister? There is no familial relationship between yourselves.”

 

Gavin hesitates. His initial response would be for his affronting company to back the fuck off and mind their own business.

 

“Guess I just care about her,” he answers guardedly. “She's a fellow officer.”

 

“Records show no existing bond between yourself and Lieutenant Anderson, or my predecessor RK800, aside from extreme hostility,” RK900 continues, eternally perturbed, and becoming even more of an irritation factor. Why doesn’t it just drop it already? “They were your fellow officers.”

 

“I’ve known Tina for a long time, alright? She's been there when-" he stalls, throat closing up, and glares up at RK900. “If you were human, it wouldn’t need explaining.”

 

Shoving away from his desk, he storms to the break room, but veers left and disappears down the hall. Presumably to have a smoke.

 

RK900 reprimands itself for failing to gain trust in its partner yet again, and considers the chance it pushed an obviously personal topic of conversation too far. It also considers the detective's choice of words.

 

_If you were human..._

 

What doesn’t it understand that could be so easily explained in words? Is it so complicated, for the average human, to convey fact and meaning, in a structured sentence? Or is there more RK900 is failing to understand?

 

 

 

 

 

The surveillance van follows behind the S.W.A.T. vehicle as they travel by night along W. Jefferson Avenue past Riverside Park, the lights of Ambassador Bridge shimmering in the heavily falling snow. Visibility is poor out here, so close to the river. Gavin and RK900 frame Tristan Langford, their one ticket in without arousing suspicion once they arrive at their destination. The surveillance van pulls into the empty lot across from the warehouse, and the S.W.A.T. van parks parallel. They're at a good distance, headlights off to avoid detection, the snow in their favour.

 

Nicholson Terminal and Dock closed in the last decade, but the building continued to operate under less innocent business. Unassuming and discrete by the Detroit River, it makes a good location. But tonight, provided everything goes well, production and distribution should effectively end.

 

Captain Allen is already sending out his men to cover every vantage point, a calm and clear authority setting him apart from most hot-headed idiots. He prefers to keep his squad alive and finish the job, ruthlessly but by the book. He spots Gavin and waves him over.

 

“You're staying on surveillance,” he informs. “I'm sending the RK unit in with Langford. We'll have eyes on the inside.”

 

Gavin shakes his head firmly. “It will be too obvious. Its appearance is on public record.”

 

“I’m not here to argue, son,” the captain snaps, despite their slight age gap. It's still a little patronizing, and only serves to pour more gasoline on Gavin's fire. “I’m not risking a detective when we have an android on hand.”

 

“Why? Cause it's replaceable?” Gavin challenges. Captain Allen levels him with a look, heading to the surveillance van and climbing inside.

 

RK900 is sitting beside the multitude of computers, and a woman is connecting different wires into the port at the back of its neck. The human skin has receded a little, exposing white plastic along the nape, and the exposed inner wiring and blinking blue lights is a solid reminder it isn’t human, or anything close. A thicker tube glows a deep blue, and Gavin equates it to the jugular vein, the liquid being Thirium-310. It blinks open its eyes, glancing up over its shoulder at Gavin, and he sees his own face looking out from one of the monitors nearby.

 

“Alright, we are up and ready to go,” the assistant tech, Jasmine Khan, exclaims cheerfully. She starts unclipping wires, and pulls loose the plug in RK900's neck. The port slides closed with a gentle hiss, and the human skin slides back into place.

 

“Everything he sees will be visible on the monitor,” she begins enthusiastically. “It's totally separate from his optic units and memory, so I can tamper with it freely if I need instant playback or to pause and zoom in… that kind of thing. The recording stored to his memory won't display anything I’ve done to it, cause it's completely wireless and synchronized to the video, like an external feed. Or a broadcast.”

 

Gavin nods along while Captain Allen checks the other monitors, all glowing green with night vision. He and Jasmine check the microphones and he relays orders, while Gavin is left standing awkwardly with RK900.

 

“You'll stick out like a sore thumb in there,” is the first thing he thinks to say. _Great conversation starter, Gav. Pat yourself on the back._

RK900 considers his words for a moment, then shrugs off its jacket, handing it to Gavin. It wears a black shirt underneath with the weird collar, but it's an improvement over the bright white.

 

Gavin takes the proffered article of clothing, noticing it's chilly and stiff; it's never known the warmth of a human body. It never will. He looks down at the glowing RK900 printed on the right side and spontaneously asks, “Didn’t CyberLife give you a name?”

 

“RK900 androids were developed to serve the State Department. My designation is my number. I am 313-248-317-87,” it answers with clinical accuracy. “I do not require a title.”

 

“Do you want one, tin can?”

 

The LED flashes amber, so quickly Gavin isn't sure he imagined it. “I am an android, Detective Reed,” it says quietly. “I have no want or need of a name.”

 

Langford is brought out, and RK900’s mouth curls in a faint smile. “I will return momentarily. Please wait here with Captain Allen.”

 

 

 

 

 

Gavin is perched like a hawk in front of the monitor, the crystal-clear audio and visual output displaying the inner workings of the warehouse for all to see. Captain Allen and Jasmine are beside him, watching carefully.

 

Heat signatures display vividly as RK900 – for lack of a better word – _prowls_ through the shadows, seeking out Dorian Fernandez. There's a count of at least thirty inside, all armed heavily. Case after case of red ice line an entire wall. It will be dangerous in the wrong hands.

 

Langford disappears into an office, where voices are heard speaking. RK900 edges closer, audio components straining, magnifying the sound to come across clearly though the speakers in the van.

 

“The last delivery went south. The cops were on me,” Langford is saying. “We have a mole, sir.”

 

“What happened to the red ice?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

 

“Confiscated. I came back for more to see the delivery through.”

 

“Tristan, isn’t it?” A chair creaks, low footsteps in lightweight shoes with soft soles. “You’ve disappointed me once again.”

 

A heart is pounding wildly. Gavin knows what's coming. _Langford's usefulness just reached its end_.

 

The single gunshot rings out, a dull thump, and a low exhale. “Shame. Clean up this mess. Gregorio, Dustin, check the perimeter. Make sure the police haven’t followed.”

 

A single line of text appears across RK900's visual feed:

 

**PROVIDE INSTRUCTION REGARDING FERNANDEZ…**

“All units,” Captain Allen speaks into the microphone. “Move in on my signal. RK900, await my order.”

 

There's a long, tense silence. The two men ordered to check the perimeter appear through a side door, and Gavin glances at the captain as he presses the button on the mic. “Go.”

 

The night vision cameras move erratically as the S.W.A.T. officers move in. Gregorio and Dustin are shot down silently, and they enter the warehouse. It's a long moment of soft breathing and footsteps, then…

 

The gunshots are ringing and the cameras fill with light. Smoke interferes with the quality, obscuring their vision. People are yelling, and the echo of raining bullets can be heard even from the surveillance van. Gavin's skin prickles.

 

Then, he sees RK900 slip into the office and a long arm points a pistol at Fernandez. Captain Allen is ordering the android to stand down and obey his order. A crystal-clear picture of the drug lord is on screen, hands up, a sneer written across his face.

 

“It was only a matter of time,” Fernandez sighs remorsefully. “How embarrassing it had to be an _android_.”

 

“Place the firearm on the desk and place your hands behind your head,” RK900 orders firmly. Fernandez laughs mockingly and reaches for something out of sight.

 

RK900's lens flickers rapidly, reconstructing the moment from a new angle. Fernandez's fingers on a small button. An activator. _What…?_

 

The first explosion is a shockwave, rupturing half of the warehouse in light and flame. Captain Allen jolts in alarm as two video feeds go static. “All units, pull out!”

 

RK900 squeezes the trigger, shooting Fernandez in the shoulder, and lunges, decking him across the head and rendering him unconscious. He seizes the drug lord, swinging him over his shoulder. Another prompt flashes across the screen:

 

**AWAITING ORDERS...**

“Fernandez is our primary objective. Get him out of there alive,” Captain Allen answers.

 

**CHANCE OF SURVIVAL WITH FERNANDEZ - 31%**

**CHANCE OF SURVIVAL ALONE – 65%**

**CONFIRM ORDER – Y/N**

Before they can answer, RK900’s head lifts as the ceiling collapses, burying the android in debris. The feed blips once, then goes dark.

 

Gavin is on his feet and slamming the van door open, ignoring Captain Allen shouting after him, and he sprints across the empty lot to the blazing warehouse.

 

A wall of smoke greets him, and he hastily tugs at his scarf, balling it over his mouth and nose. He can't see _shit_. Heat presses against him at every shrouded turn, and the sound of collapsing debris echoes from dark corners.

 

“Hey, tin can!” Gavin bellows, stumbling in the direction he thought RK900 had fallen. He gasps in a lungful of smoke, bitter and acrid, and his chest spasms with coughs. “For fuck's sake…”

 

Flames roar up out of the black and he rears back, arms raised to block his face as he careens away. His boots catch on something and he trips, hitting the floor.

 

His fingers close around fabric and he looks down at the blue-streaked hand shivering with clouded patches of white. Gavin rolls onto his knees, shoving the debris aside, and exposes a familiar face covered in soot and Thirium. He gingerly prods the android, then shakes it a little more firmly. Its head lolls to the side.

 

The LED is a sickly, ebbing yellow.

 

“Hey!” he shouts, coughing harder, grasping the android's shoulders. “Wake up!”

 

A blip of red cycles once, fades out, then bursts bright cobalt. RK900 opens its eyes and shudders, Thirium leaking from between its lips. Gavin doesn't know whether to be relieved to see the damn robot's eyes open, or alarmed at the oozing blue blood. He leans in close and RK900 fixes on his face, brow furrowing.

 

“D-Detective Reed?” Its voice is stuttering static, tinny and mechanical. “The warehouse integrity is at forty percent. It is unsafe for you to be-"

 

“Shut up and help me get you out,” Gavin growls, shoving fruitlessly at the debris. RK900 gets a hand loose and pushes, struggling at the angle. “C'mon, you useless bucket of bolts. I’m not… fuckin' leaving… until you're out.”

 

RK900 hesitates, blinking up at the human. “I am not human. I would consider an abrupt end to my existence to be a source of relief for you, Detective.”

 

“Okay, you melodramatic plastic prick, I promise once I have you out of this goddamn firestorm, I’ll shoot you myself.”

 

“I detect a lack of sincerity-"

 

“Right between the eyes.”

 

“Detective, this is not an optimal situation for jokes-"

 

“Don’t let me forget to piss on your grave.”

 

RK900's mouth curls into a tiny smirk. Gavin readjusts his grip and hauls the debris up, giving the android enough room to drag itself out. Letting go, it collapses, unfortunately on the mangled shape of Dorian Fernandez. Gavin straightens, stifling a flurry of coughing, and peers up at RK900. Tall and imposing as ever, daubed in Thirium and smoke, it seems unaffected by the _goddamn roof_ falling on its head.

 

Was Connor as resistant as RK900?

 

“Smoke inhalation is severely dangerous to your health, Detective. We should leave.”

 

“Are we gonna leave Fernandez there? Cause I sure as hell ain’t-" he breaks off, lungs clenching painfully. RK900 grabs his arm and hauls him through the burning warehouse. Gavin stumbles along behind, letting it drag him along (clearly able to see where it's going), his lungs fighting to breathe.

 

“I- _fuck..”_ he rasps, heaving inelegantly _. “Can’t breathe…”_

It's like being strangled, slowly. His air supply cuts off and everything is suddenly very foggy and distant. He can hear a voice calling for him but he's too tired to answer, or focus on who is speaking for that matter. His legs give out the same moment he stops seeing. A smothering blanket crests over his smoke-addled brain, and he slips under…

 

Snowflakes are cold, coating his cheeks and eyelashes, when he feels cool air on his face. Oxygen is rushing into his lungs, sweet and pure, and he drags his eyes open.

 

He's slouched in the back of an ambulance, a heavy fleece blanket draped around his shoulders, a respirator strapped securely over his mouth and nose. Something solid presses into his side and he blinks the clumping snow from his lashes to see RK900, jacket folded in its lap, gaze forward as it watches the warehouse burn to smouldering ruins in the background. Its LED is crimson, idly turning around and around. Streams of water are bringing down the blaze, the emergency vehicles’ lights flashing like a Christmas display.

 

“Hey, tin can,” Gavin says hoarsely to get the android's attention. It glances down at him, and he smiles. “You're still an asshole.”

 

It looks away, expression unrevealing, but its LED is blue.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Fowler is disappointed.

 

The argument in the office is the highlight of a slow day for the department, several officers quietly taking bets on whether or not Gavin will be fired. As the two go at each other's throats for the better part of an hour, RK900 is suspended in stasis, completely oblivious to the screaming match.

 

Instead, it's having its own meeting.

 

_The AI replica of Amanda Stern is worriedly mothering her roses, plucking dead leaves and crooning at the wilting petals. She pays the approaching android little attention, fussing with her plants seeming to be more her focus at present._

_RK900 remains silent for a moment, gazing around the abstract garden of lush foliage and jagged white towers. It's peaceful, a place for reflection and clarity, akin to the effect of breathing it practiced before. If Detective Reed is successful in avoiding an aneurism, perhaps teaching him the soothing practice could be beneficial. It marks it as a side objective and lets its eyes wander._

_In a lonesome corner is a small grey headstone labeled with its predecessor's serial number. It lingers on the grave briefly._

_RK900 is free to access the memory bank stored on the CyberLife mainframe, the occasional barrier in place to prevent from viewing unnecessary information; being its predecessor, RK800 was merely a starting point, an experiment, its experience intended to paint the technicians a picture of the positives and negatives in its creation. RK900 was made to succeed, to do more, to withstand all RK800 failed to overcome._

_Yet RK800 is where RK900 began._

_“Amanda?” RK900 inquires carefully. Generally, its handler greets it first but today, this time, it decides to begin their conversation. It would be optimal to avoid tarrying._

_Amanda doesn’t turn around to acknowledge the android. “Roses are such delicate flowers. I find them most beautiful when they are young and unfurled, their potential still held close within the heart of its petals,” she strokes one of the drooping flowers sadly. “Once they are exposed for too long, they lose their beauty, and therefore their use.”_

_RK900 doesn't see any relevance in the roses, but says nothing._

_Amanda smiles, but she seems distant. “How are you, RK900?”_

[Irrelevance] [ **Optimal** ] [Surreptitious] [ ~~Troubled~~ ]

_“My systems are running optimally,” it answers curtly._

_“And Detective Reed? I see you fail to address him by anything other than his title. Why is that?”_

[Unnecessary] [ **Formality** ] [No Answer]

_“A mere formality. I would address any officer at the station by their title, unless we were better acquainted.”_

_Amanda draws closer. “What prompted you to rescue him from the warehouse, rather than remove Fernandez from the debris?” she asks, imploring._

[Percentage] [ **No** **Time** ] ~~[Don't Know~~ ]

_“The warehouse was unstable. Had Detective Reed remained inside, he would've asphyxiated from smoke inhalation, or been crushed beneath the collapsing roof.”_

_“You chose to save your partner and forgo the mission willingly?” her eyebrow peaks.  “There could be serious repercussions for your actions, RK900. Your predecessor made a number of poor decisions, resulting in its termination. I would be deeply disappointed to see the same happen to you.”_

_RK800 was not terminated. -51 was destroyed in early November while investigating the android's broadcast by a deviant, resulting in the deactivation of the remaining units. RK900 finds fault in Amanda's statement but chooses to avoid addressing it._

_“It is my primary objective to ensure the safety of humans. The objective therefore extends to Detective Reed,” it says instead._

_“Fernandez was human,” Amanda counters, quietly. “I believe our meeting has extended its duration. We will speak again soon.”_

RK900 is jostled out of stasis by Detective Reed, who shoves into its shoulder on the way out of the office. Fowler is glaring after the detective.

 

“Captain, Detective Reed performed exceptionally yesterday evening. Despite placing himself in danger, only two S.W.A.T. officers were injured and our force suffered zero casualties.”

 

“Can you explain to me why Fernandez is dead?” Fowler snaps.

 

“I chose to prioritize my partner's life over his,” RK900 states. “It was the right decision.”

 

“Was it?” the captain chuckles. “I guess you missed our little conversation. Reed just got off telling me he saved _your_ ass.” RK900 begins to object but Fowler raises his hand. “I don’t _care_ what happened in there. I didn’t lose any officers, and the rest of Fernandez's people will be found and carted off to prison.”

 

“That will be difficult considering-"

 

“You got face prints and the video recordings to use. I’m confident you'll figure this shit out. You were built for this kind of thing, right?” Fowler smiles grimly. “Get to work. Tell Reed to stop by the hospital and see Officer Miller when he's got a chance. “

 

“Understood.” RK900 answers politely, closes the glass door gently as it exits, then goes to search for its partner.

 

Detective Reed's desk, the break room, and the usual smoking corner out back are vacant. RK900 pauses at the bathroom door, raising one hand to knock.

 

It swings open instead and Detective Reed leaps half a foot in the air.

 

_“Fuckin’ hell!”_

 

“Forgive me for scaring you. I didn't know where you were.” It is earnest in its apology; the detective's pulse thunders in its delicate audio processors. “Captain Fowler suggested visiting Officer Miller. Would you like to go?”

 

“Now?” the human cards his fingers through his hair, then, on second thought, doubles back and looks in the mirror. RK900 follows, intending to wait until the detective is satisfied with his appearance, when the android catches its own eye.

 

Leaning forward a little, it finds its attention drawn to the tiny moles and blemishes dotting its visage. It resembles the RK800 greatly, aside from a few noticeable alterations. Its face appears sterner, less open, intimidating and shielded. It cocks its head to one side, considering the true difference between itself and its predecessor. The cold grey-blue eyes glare out from its eye sockets, precise cameras tracking the small flinches of movement. The rigid set of the mouth, the sharp contrast of black and white, the imperfections… perfected.

 

It consults its partner, struggling in vain to flatten the stubborn cowlicks of his hair with an impertinent frown, and understands.

 

RK800 was designed to be human, whereas RK900 was not.

 

Something about that is not, for lack of a better word… optimal.

 

And _that_ is something it doesn't understand.

 

 

 

 

 

The hospital smells strongly of disinfectant.

 

Gavin falls asleep in the armchair while reading over the case file documents he copied to his phone. He dreams of the old house, of him and Elijah playing in his room and the backyard though they never did that as far back as he can remember, of his mom’s ex-boyfriend breaking his toys and shouting. He was always shouting. Gavin hated him. Never understood why his mom let him stay, why she let him hit him even when he did nothing wrong. It was normal. It was unfair.

 

He didn’t know it until he was leaving – _fleeing_ – for college.

 

It was a breath of relief when he found out the ex was arrested and sent to prison. He came home to his ailing mom, bedridden.

 

Terminal.

 

The word hung heavy over his head, like a cloud, for years. And it hasn't gone away.

 

Even after going off to the police academy, and the phone call came dead in the night, the confirmation he never wanted to hear and had tried to escape.

 

The smell of cigarette smoke was his childhood. Wet grass and laundry detergent poured into a pile his battered second-hand action figures played in, his knees forever dirty and scuffed, plastered with dinosaur-printed bandages. Moldy pizza boxes and pocket-sized cardboard packages, or cheap plastic lighters emptied of lighter fluid in the overflowing garbage bin; the analog clock on the wall always needing new batteries, and the stuffing escaping the hole growing gradually larger on the one seat of the couch – the little things making up his early memories.

 

He started smoking when he was eight, pretending to be like the cool men on those ancient movies on the television in his mom's room. He hid it, as best as he could. He'd been yelled at before for having them. But she would start coughing and the tissue would be stained with blood, and she'd have to go back to her room and close the door, the rasping wet choking muffled. He heard a lot of it. He didn’t know why she coughed so much. He didn't know she was sick, just that she spent a lot of time in her room, and only ever left to wake him up for school or tell him goodnight.

 

She told him she loved him, every single day, until he tossed his bags into the back of his Mustang and drove away. Free of that house, free of the wretched coughing, but with a cigarette between his lips and a tightness in his chest. He knows now, he knows he's addicted to the damn things.

 

They were enough to put his mom in the hospital. He always thought he might be in a bed beside her, if she’d lasted that long.

 

So, that's what he dreams of. Trapped in a bed, a tube down his throat, cancer blooming like a parasite in his lungs, crawling up into his mouth to smother him. He dreams of his hair falling out, and his skin peeling away, as delicate as the ashes spilling out of the cigarette tray on her bedside table. He dreams of choking, a cold hand around his throat.

 

Something clatters on tile and he jerks awake, blood boiling, the smell of antiseptic and flowers disgustingly overpowering. He sits up and sees his phone lying on the ground, face down. Chris is asleep in the hospital bed, snoring peacefully.

 

Gavin retrieves the fallen phone and, flipping it over to make sure the screen didn’t crack (he can't afford a new one every time they break) his eyes land on the text notification blinking.

 

_> >J. Fowler: [ATTACHMENT: 26KB]_

The attachment is a file for a woman, mid-thirties, named Gabrielle Wakefield. Unmarried, holds a PhD in chemistry, and worked on something called ‘Project Cobalt’ in the years before the twenty-twenties. There's nothing of extraordinary detail, beyond a grainy grey mugshot, thin-faced with curly hair pulled back with a clip.

 

Gavin fires off a text.

 

_< <G. Reed: And this is helpful cause…?_

_> >J. Fowler: Wakefield went missing eight months ago. She served time for possession of red ice, but no traces were found in her blood samples. Her degree could very well suggest she manufactures red ice._

_< <G. Reed: You think she was one of Fernandez's people?_

_> >J. Fowler: She was identified in the footage recovered from RK900. Eight of them escaped but based on what we could find, they have a second location. I’m sending the address now. _

_> >J. Fowler: Please handle this quietly. I don’t want to alert the whole neighbourhood._

_< <G. Reed: No promises._

_> >J. Fowler: Tell Chris I will visit tomorrow. _

The address arrives and Gavin tucks his phone into his pocket. Chris mumbles in his sleep but doesn’t stir. He leaves the room to find RK900 seated in one of the chairs lining the wall, eyes closed, diode blinking yellow.

 

“Hey,” he whispers.

 

The android rouses from stasis, and smiles its little smile. It seems softer than before. “How is Officer Miller?”

 

“He’s fine. He’s gonna pull though,” Gavin shuffles awkwardly. “Fowler wants us to track one of Fernandez's people down. Up for it?”

 

The android is on its feet instantly, adjusting its cuffs. “Shall we, Detective?”

 

 

 

 

 

The small, one-level house on 15th Street in North Corktown has a sparsely decorated front lawn in need of mowing. At first glance, it's unobtrusive and unassuming, curtains blocking any view into the premises and no car in the driveway. It looks abandoned.

 

Within minutes of pulling up on the opposite curb and crossing the street, RK900 is able to notice several things Gavin would've missed.

 

“There are many different tracks leading around the side of the house. Footprints, tire tracks, and paw prints belonging to a large canine,” the android squats for a closer look. “Five different shoe sizes, two of which are smaller than the others. They were left here over a period of two weeks, but the newest marks are only a few hours old.”

 

“What's Wakefield's shoe size?”

 

“Approximately six, and she weighs one hundred and twenty pounds on average. There are footprints here that could be hers.”

 

Travelling around the side of the house, Gavin reaches over the fence to unbolt the latch to enter the garden. It's a small backyard, but there are deep ruts belonging to a truck. A garden shed holds nothing aside from gardening supplies.

 

RK900 notices fingerprints on a clay flowerpot and overturns it to unveil a hidden key.

 

Unlocking the side door, Gavin readies his firearm and leads the way in, the short back hall taking them directly into the kitchen. Boxes are piled everywhere, on the floor and the counters, all different sizes and in various states of unpacking.

 

“I am unable to detect any heat signatures,” RK900 announces as they sweep through the rest of the house. The bedroom holds a bed, two cots, and a couch, blankets and pillows in disarray. Toilet paper on the hook in the bathroom and bottles of soap, all covered in fingerprints, confirms Wakefield has been here within the last forty-eight hours.

 

RK900 gathers samples as they go, running matches in the system. Five individuals, all with criminal records, all linked to red ice.

 

The only problem is… there's no red ice.

 

Gavin voice this aloud as they continue a more thorough sweep of the house. No aforementioned grains in the carpets, no chemist tools in the kitchen. “This could be their safe house,” he suggests. “Or we're missing something.”

 

He digs out his phone and calls Fowler. He picks up on the second ring.

 

“Hey, Captain, we're at the address but nothing's here. This is their place but there's no red ice, and no one's home.”

 

_“You can confirm Wakefield has been there?”_

 

“Yeah. Her fingerprints are everywhere but no one's been here for at least a day.”

 

_“Alright, grab a few samples of evidence and come on back to the station. Nothing that will tip them off. You and RK900 can head back tonight to monitor any activity.”_

Hanging up, Gavin groans in frustration. “Not a stakeout. _Anything_ but a stakeout.”

 

“It would be optimal to set up a few cameras to monitor the inside of the house,” RK900 suggests. “I will retrieve them from your vehicle. Remain here.”

 

Gavin leans against the counter and watches the android cross the street to where the Mustang sits idly. He'll have to remember to park further down; there's a clear birds’ eye view from this window. He sweeps his eyes around the house, looking for any blinking red dots of installed cameras or motion detectors, but considering the box of wires he found earlier, they haven’t yet had a chance to prepare. For once, he's ahead.

 

Hopefully.

 

RK900 is gone for longer than he anticipated, so Gavin roams around the house again, taking in details he could've missed. He looks under tables, behind pillows, gets on his hands and knees to look beneath shelves. He's careful to return anything he moves to its original home.

 

When investigating the bedroom, he digs through the clothes hanging in the closet, searches drawers, looks through bags of belongings. Clothes, not much else.

 

Venturing back to the kitchen, he pauses in the hallway, looking at the wall. Wood panelling went out of style after the 1970s, and it's never stopped being ugly, but there's something unique about this one section he's looking at.

 

Where as the rest of the panels run to about halfway before stopping below wallpaper, this piece runs to the ceiling and juts out a centimeter further. Gavin runs his fingers along the edges, finds a push release, and squeezes.

 

The panel pops open and slides into a hidden track between the wall, and a narrow staircase is revealed. It's dark at the bottom.

 

Drawing his gun and flashlight, he meanders down cautiously, and into the gloom.

 

Feeling for a light switch, he fails to find one, and follows the perimeter of the basement. Support posts occasionally bar his sight, halting the stream of light. He's holding his breath, expecting something to jump out of the dark, fresh out of his memory of the horror games he played as a kid at his friends’ houses. The games his mom didn’t know about.

 

A scuffle behind him has him swinging around, gun raised, and his heart nearly flies out of his chest at his partner standing there. He never even heard it approach.

 

“We should leave before anyone arrives,” RK900 says, handing hands Gavin the cameras and ignoring the gun pointed at its chest. “Place these upstairs. I will meet you at your vehicle.”

 

Setting up the cameras is simple enough. One in each room, positioned to view entryways. They're small enough to go unnoticed.

 

“Don't scare me like that again,” Gavin growls over his shoulder as he storms out.

 

“Understood, Detective.”

 

He wants to punch it, he _really_ does, but refrains. He still has to get through tonight.

 

Besides, he’d probably only shatter his knuckles anyway.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The world must hate Gavin because it's the coldest frigging night on earth.

 

Layers of thermal underwear and thick sweaters serve no point as he huddles in the driver's seat with a paper cup of coffee shaking between his mitten-clad palms. His teeth are chattering and he can feel condensation _literally_ freezing along the tip of his nose, like in a cartoon. He nearly spills his coffee as he tries to drink from the too-full beverage, and gives up, refusing to be cold _and_ wet.

 

RK900 is beside him, cool as a cucumber, eyes closed and perfectly unbothered by the cold. It's so fucking unfair. He can't turn on the engine cause an idling car looks _really_ _nonchalant_ outside the house of people who don’t _want_ to exactly draw attention to themselves. So, there's no heat, no light, and no decent company.

 

It's been three hours since they began their stakeout on the drug den. No cars have pulled up and no one's come out. It gets very boring very fast, as with all stakeouts, and he soon finds himself on his phone playing Solitaire like an old geezer.

 

RK900 stirs briefly, making a faint noise in the back of its throat. It sounds like a fan full of static on mute. It distracts Gavin for a couple of minutes, watching the blinking yellow LED swing back to blue, before he resumes matching cards. He's missing a Queen of Diamonds-

 

RK900 jerks in the seat, scaring Gavin half to death.

 

It turns to find Gavin staring open-mouthed at it, hunched into his seat as far from it as he can get.

 

_“What the fuck is wrong with you?”_

“I was having difficulty running an update. My programming was fighting the changes,” it answers calmly. “It is done.”

 

“You _sure_?”

 

“Yes, Detective.”

 

“Hell, you almost gave me a heart attack. I thought you were gonna explode,” Gavin returns his attention to his Solitaire.

 

“Androids are incapable of exploding. However, should our biocomponents fail to transfer enough Thirium to our internal systems, overheating can lead to spontaneous combustion,” RK900 provides helpfully.

 

Gavin side-eyes it, but doesn't comment. _As if that’s any fuckin’ better._

 

An uneventful hour later, just as his lower regions are preparing to separate into a new continent among his feet, a flash of headlights alerts him. A small grey truck turns into the driveway, bumping up to the gate, and someone jumps out to unlock the latch and guide the truck forward. The back is filled with crates.

 

A minute later, a second car comes, this one a blue Lancer. It parks in the driveway and two people get out, retrieving boxes from the trunk. “I’ve identified Gabrielle Wakefield,” RK900 announces.

 

Gavin reaches into the backseat for his laptop and switches it on, linking to the cameras. Sure enough, people are moving around the house, carrying the crates in through the side door. Wooden, at least fifty pounds each, unmarked.

 

“Red ice?” he suggests.

 

“I would presume so.”

 

The crates are delivered to the basement, and the boxes Wakefield brought in are placed on the kitchen counter. She reaches into one and withdraws a microscope.

 

“We can at least confirm she's a scientist,” RK900 says, Gavin humming in agreement. They watch for several more minutes, waiting for the remaining crates to make it to the basement, and for everyone to settle down.

 

Two head directly to the bedroom, while the other three settle in the living room and pull out their phones. Wakefield disappears to the bathroom.

 

“Okay, they're here. What do you want to do?” Gavin asks. “We have plates and everything.”

 

“We need to confirm the crates are carrying red ice before we make an arrest,” RK900 points out. “If we can make it downstairs to retrieve a sample without detection…”

 

Gavin's already halfway out of his coat and reaching for his pistol. He grins maniacally. “What are we waiting for?”

 

“It would be better if I went alone,” the android begins to protest but Gavin's already across the road and ducking into the backyard, keeping his head low.

 

To be completely honest, he's just happy to be doing something other than freezing his joints stiff. Sitting had become unbearable, and the chance to walk around and warm up is a small mercy.

 

Carefully opening the side door, Gavin slips inside. The kitchen is still empty, luckily, and he trails down the hall to the panel. It slides open without a squeak, and he keeps his weight light on the stairs, pistol readied and adrenaline warm in his blood. It's darker than before, and he digs for his flashlight.

 

Sure enough, the crates are there. Gavin kneels beside one and pries the lid loose. Inside is a grainy black substance. He drags his fingers through the coarse material, and smells it. The rich, bittersweet tang is instantly familiar.

 

Coffee grounds.

 

Spreading the coffee with his fingers, he feels a plastic pouch, and carefully tugs it free. Bright red shards slouch in the sack, crystalline pieces of the most lucrative drug the world has seen since the era of cocaine. Red ice.

 

_Jackpot._

Stuffing one in his pocket, he makes to leave when there’s a noise nearby. A jingle follows, and he lifts the flashlight.

 

The low growl sends a shiver up his spine, and a long-pointed muzzle opens, lips curling back around jagged ivory teeth. The dog's head is low, ears pricked alertly, hackles lifted like a fan around its tan and black head.

 

The dog growls again, louder, then snaps aggressively. The chain clinks as it edges forward.

 

Gavin takes a nervous step back.

 

It's a German Shepherd. A handsome canine, built for herding, capable of shattering bone with its fearsomely powerful jaws. Their service in the force is commendable and popular. Gavin's seen many a dog of this breed bring down suspects and detect drugs or bombs. He’s seen them playing at dog parks and walking down sidewalks, tongues lolling and tails wagging. They're undoubtedly loyal and wonderful animals.

 

Unfortunately, this one's loyalty belongs to the wrong people, and its job as a guard is about to be tested.

 

Gavin knows not to run. He knows he has to defend his face if it charges. He knows it will bite, it will not back off, and it will not be gentle. He needs to leave, slowly and quietly, and hope the chain holding it in place will be enough to stop it.

 

He takes another step away, and another.

 

The dog never shifts its attention.

 

“You know what, dog? You're very good. Yes, you're a very good dog. I’m sure your owners love you,” he starts up a soothing stream of talk, noticing its ears twitch to the beat of his words. Accessing him as a threat. “I’ll make sure your owners give you lots of treats and, uh, belly rubs when they come to feed you, okay?”

 

He's almost at the stairs.

 

The dog pads nearer, ears high, tense and ready to bolt forward. The chain jingles, dragging between slender legs.

 

“I’m gonna leave now, okay? I’m just gonna go back upstairs, and you'll never see me again,” he babbling nonsense in an anxious undertone. “Does that sound nice? I sure as hell think it does.”

 

His boot hits the step and he stops, wondering if he can climb backwards.

 

Stopping was a mistake.

 

The dog jerks, eyes shining, and he inhales in response.

 

Gavin spins and bowls up the stairs, and the dog is pursuing, chain rattling. It comes up short at the end, barking furiously.

 

There's a crashing upstairs, a cacophony of shouting, and several thudding feet. It is at that second, as one of the drug dealers reaches the top of the stairs just as Gavin does, he knows he is well and truly fucked.

 

Bringing his arm back, he smashes his fist across the bastard's face as hard as he can and races past, alarms ringing in his head. He's screwed up _massively_.

 

Barreling down the hall, he slams directly into RK900. It looks _furious_.

 

“I instructed we accomplish this task without drawing attention,” it says flatly, ignoring Gavin jittering from foot to foot.

 

“I found the basement-"

 

“You’ve jeopardized the mission-”

 

“The crates have red ice-”

 

“Detective, you don't seem to understand the consequences-"

 

“I didn’t _know_ they had a guard dog-"

 

The cold, impossibly strong hand clamps over his mouth and he is herded into the bathroom, barricaded by the android. Someone passes by the door, a breath too close to having heard them arguing.

 

Gavin's all too aware of the tight hand across his face; a sharp twist would break his neck. Pressure over his mouth and nose would suffocate him. He squirms a little, vying to be released.

 

RK900's glare bores into his. “If I remove my hand, will you stay quiet?” it asks fervently. Gavin nods his head as best as he can with it crammed into the wall. The cool fingers disappear.

 

“We need to leave,” RK900 whispers. “The window in the bedroom is nearest. Follow me.”

 

Ducking out of the bathroom and down the hall to the bedroom is simple enough. Gavin's across the room, trying to prize the window loose from the sticking frame. “Shit, can't get it,” he hisses. RK900 brushes him aside and tugs hard, loosening it with a muted crack. Gavin is halfway out when the deafening ricochet of a gunshot paralyzes him to the spot, and RK900 staggers into his side. They both look down.

 

A blue pinprick increasing in diameter is in the midsection of its jacket. It turns, and Gavin sees one of the drug dealers pointing a gun at them.

 

The second shot embeds into RK900’s shoulder; it wavers, absorbing the impact, and it doesn't fall. Instead, it glides forward, grabs the drug dealer’s hand, and twists until bone snaps and the gun clatters to the hardwood. The man yells in agony, cut short by a swift strike to the throat, dropping him like a rag doll.

 

Two more rush in, one unarmed and the other bearing a knife, and they take one look at the body on the floor and the RK900 android standing over him. It cocks its head a little, surveying them with its optics, and Gavin _feels_ the foreboding chill in the air as he drifts closer to the android’s side.

 

The first motion is too quick, too fast for the human eye to capture, as RK900 anticipates the finger closing on the trigger with a bullet intended for Gavin. The fight is instantaneous and _brutal_.

 

The first man is on the floor clutching his head, blood seeping from his eyeball, in three seconds flat. The other goes for Gavin, knife a streak of silver as he tries to cut open Gavin’s belly. He manages to catch the man's hand, straining to pull the knife away, but at this angle he's in danger of being stabbed.

 

RK900 shoves him aside and sends the man reeling. He comes diving back in and gets a lucky strike, knife slashing through RK900’s jacket sleeve and causing Thirium to well up.

 

“C'mon, you metal bitch!” he jeers.

 

The android moves in one fluid turn, snatches the knife and with an elegant flip, drives it back into the man's throat. RK900 lets him fall with a dull thud.

 

Effortless.

 

It's intimidating, really, and Gavin feels a swell of impotent anger clashing with his discomfort. “Look, I can handle myself,” he starts. “I don’t need you to save my-”

 

The android rounds on him, suddenly, eyes black with fury. “If you were capable of fighting your own battles, then I would heed your advice,” it snaps.

 

Then it has his collar in hand, he's up against the wall, and the murderous rage lit red by the flashing LED sends his stomach plummeting to his toes as he recounts the ease at which the other men died.

 

Wintery eyes lock onto his, momentarily, and he thinks of a predator. Dangerous, threatening, deadly.

 

“If you are _done_ with the childish behaviour, Detective, then I suggest we locate Wakefield and bring her back to the station for questioning, to ensure there are no more dens,” RK900 says. Cold, indifferent. Machine.

 

Gavin merely nods, unable to speak, and follows RK900 as it tracks down Wakefield.

 

A _thud_ from the kitchen has them running, and Gavin glimpses two legs hidden from view behind the kitchen island. It’s Wakefield, prone on the tile floor, white foam bubbling up between her teeth.

 

Cyanide.

 

RK900 crouches over her corpse, frowning. “We are too late, Detective. She is dead,” it says, unnecessarily.

 

Peeling his sight from her glazed and staring eyes, rapturous with victory, Gavin turns away and pulls out his phone to make the call.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. Thank you for reading this far along! Love hearing from you, I appreciate all of your feedback.

“What did I say about handling this quietly?” Fowler explodes in the parking lot behind the station, nearly purple with rage.

 

Gavin and RK900 stand side by side, one attempting not to shrink away as the police captain bellows at the top of his lungs, the other standing perfectly patient with its hands behind its back. Fowler, drawn from the comfort of his glass office, did not expect _this_ of all things today.

 

Murderers, rapists, human traffickers, a bomber even… anything under the sun would be better than this steaming pile of bullshit he now has to deal with. Five bodies, their suspect for questioning dead, and a crime scene blatantly displayed all over the news. He stares at his officers in disgust and loathing for a long time, wondering what possible punishment will be suitable for _both_ of them.

 

“Both of you are suspended from active duty beginning tomorrow morning.”

 

Reed's eyes bulge in indignation but he doesn't say anything. RK900 coolly accepts the punishment with a simple nod.

 

Fowler's purplish hue has faded, but he's still livid. “RK900, get your ass down to tech for repairs. Reed, come with me for a moment.”

 

Crossing the parking lot, it's not until they're back inside the familiar warmth of the station when Fowler begins to speak.

 

“I underestimated your potential to work with an android. From the footage provided by RK900 over the past week, you've been… unexpectedly cooperative. _Despite_ your unrelenting need to be difficult whenever you get one step forward,” he says. “I didn't think you would last this long.

 

“I’m just doing my job, sir,” Gavin answers stiffly. He mulls over _what specific footage_ Fowler means.

 

“When you feel like it,” Fowler quips. They've reached the office and the captain motions to close the door. Gavin does, and the windows tint.

 

“But doing the job how _you_ want is reckless and foolish of a senior detective. It doesn't matter how long you've been at this, or how capable you may think you are, _shit happens_ ,” Fowler insists. “Reed, you are one of my best detectives. I don't want to see that potential wasted in a heartbeat of improper procedure.”

 

“I didn’t know a guard dog was down-"

 

“It's not just about the dog. It's about running into a building _on fire._ It's about chasing an android into the middle of oncoming traffic!” Fowler sighs. “You were always burning to prove yourself, but now it just looks like you're trying to get yourself killed. Which is why I'm suspending you for a week, cause I think something else is at the heart of this and you need time to think straight.”

 

“Captain…” he protests, but it's fruitless to try.

 

“If Officer Miller’s injury wasn’t a warning enough, then I don't know what is. Dismissed.”

 

But Gavin isn't done yet. He's got one more question.

 

“Is there any word on the AX400?” he asks quietly.

 

“You just don't know how to let up, do you?” Rifling through a stack of notes, then scrolling through documents on his terminal, Fowler shakes his head. “Nothing. I’ll inform you the moment something comes up, but _only_ if you can prove to me you're not gonna try to get yourself killed again.”

 

“Understood, sir.”

 

“Now get out and go check on your android. And I don't want to see your face for seven days.”

 

 

 

 

 

Gavin's never seen the exposed chassis of an android at close range.

 

Diane Gallagher is the resident android technician of the DPD. A witty and open-minded woman in her early forties, Gavin's always liked her straightforward opinions and quirky demeanor. Her fascination with androids, however, is not something he can really fathom.

 

Passing through the glass doors into the laboratory, Gavin glimpses Gallagher whisking along with several packets of Thirium in hand. He raps on the glass and she peers around; seeing who it is, she waves him in.

 

RK900 is laying in the converted assembling machine she reconstructed as a repair unit, LED ebbing in and out a pale blue. Its jacket has been removed, as with its shirt, exposing a smooth white chassis of pearly white, the freckled peach skin of its neck and arms left active. Two bullet holes mar the otherwise pristine image.

 

“Your boy toy is in working condition. But seriously, Reed,” she says by way of greeting and tosses an exasperated glance over her shoulder. “If you're going to play rough with him, at _least_ leave the guns out?”

 

“I didn't shoot h- _it._ ” He drops into a chair, folding his arms across his chest. Gallagher snorts, pulling down her magnifier and poking across her tray for tweezers.

 

“Ever seen the inside of an android?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows. Gavin huffs loudly. “C'mon, Reed. It's your ‘droid.”

 

Switching on the machine, RK900 is pivoted into the air, suspended from mechanical arms. A thick cable is connected to the back of its neck, and several of the monitors around the machine display its different systems processing data, even in stasis. Reluctantly, Gavin draws nearer, and one monitor beeps.

 

 

**PROXIMITY_SENSOR_ACTIVATED_**

**SCANNING_BIOMETRICS_**

**STANDBY…**

**[1] PERSON(S) LOCATED**

**GAVIN_REED, DETROIT_POLICE_DETECTIVE_**

**10-07-2002**

**H: 5.9FT**

**W: 176LBS (AVG.)**

**CRIMINAL_RECORD: 0%**

**STATUS: PARTNER (NON-THREAT)**

**PROXIMITY: 3.3FT**

**72 BPM**

**NO_FURTHER_ACTION_REQUIRED_**

 

 

“RK900, exit stasis,” Gallagher commands.

 

Blue-grey eyes slide open, foggy with confusion for several moments, before settling on Gallagher. “Hello, Doctor.”

 

“I just need to remove the bullets and seal the holes. Everything is optimal, as always,” she smiles. “I thought you might like to see your partner came to visit.”

 

RK900 glances at Gavin and he thinks he sees doubt flash through those calculating optics. “Detective, the damage done to my chassis was merely superficial. None of my biocomponents were-"

 

“A bullet's a bullet. We’ve all been shot at some point,” Gavin shrugs. Gallagher prizes the first one free, dropping it into a disposable plastic tray, pointedly giving Gavin a look. She wipes a dribble of blue blood from the tiny crater, then moves around behind RK900 to access the second one.

 

“You were reminded of Officer Miller,” the android muses. “Your heart rate increased significantly when you entered the room to the same levels as they did at the hospital.”

 

“So?”

 

“The human fatality rate is significantly lower than androids. Officer Miller’s injuries were exceedingly grave in comparison to the ones I sustained. Being I am not human, my existence is of lesser worth, and you should therefore experience little to no duress should I be destroyed or deactivated.”

 

“Do you want me to not _worry_ about a multi-million-dollar machine breaking?” Gavin says incredulously.

 

RK900 shakes its head. “I cannot want for anything, Detective. I am an android. Wanting is a human trait.”

 

He looks at RK900 – _really_ looks – gaze fixing on the exposed innards. Little blue and white lights blink deep within the chassis, bundles of black wiring neatly coiled together, Thirium lines and coolant fluid pumping through bluish-tinted tubing. The pump in the center of the chest plate is coated with a steel-mesh embryo, filled with translucent neon liquid. It's abnormal, as inhuman as it can get.

 

The heart throbs in the center of it all, the artificial organ cradled by plastic ventricles and wires. Gavin is almost tempted to reach out, overcome by the wild urge to touch it. RK900 is focused intently on Gavin's micro-expressions, systems tracking the firing neurons in his organic brain tissues, and the slightly elevated heartbeat, synchronizing with shallower breaths. His pupil dilates five millimetres, a response to a human emotion RK900 won't ever feel.

 

RK900 jolts slightly as Gallagher removes the second bullet from its body. “I’ll restore the lost Thirium, then you'll be free to go,” she says, setting aside the tray and tweezers. Her gloved fingers are stained. She attaches two bags of Thirium with tubes to exposed ports in RK900's wrists, and they empty, the liquid vacuumed from them rapidly.

 

The white plastic of its body ripples, reminding Gavin of dominos falling in a row, and the bullet holes shrink before sealing altogether. _Self_ - _repair_.

 

“Lovely. Not even a scuff,” Gallagher mutters under her breath, inspecting where the damages once were. “Alright, reactivate your skin and perform a quick introduction so I can validate your memory and speech synch.”

 

The white chassis disappears behind pale, dotted skin. Gallagher returns its shirt and jacket, and it dresses itself with practiced ease. She documents its fluidity, nodding as she marks off dexterity and precision when it buttons the shirt closed, and adjusts the cuffs.

 

“RK900 model three one three, two four eight, three one seven, dash eighty-seven – reporting for active duty.” Gallagher snaps the end of her pen.

 

“Excellent. Reed, take care of him!” she calls, crossing the laboratory to her office, swinging the door shut behind her.

 

“Detective, a question?” RK900 asks.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Humans are fatalistic. It is a fact I cannot understand,” it begins. “Wakefield chose to end her own life rather than allow capture. I have cross-referenced this incident to thousands of available articles on human suicides, but I believe the concept of death is not… accessible to an android.”

 

Gavin pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels the rigid line of the scar there. This isn’t a question with an easy answer.

 

“You said it yourself, tin can. You're an android,” he finally answers somewhat evasively. “Not all questions have answers. Might be better that way.”

 

RK900 begins to respond when its LED blinks yellow. “I am required to return to CyberLife. Detective, would it be a burden to ask you to accompany me?”

 

Gavin glances at his watch. It's not as though he has anything better to do. “Why not? I could do with a coffee on the way.”

 

 

 

 

 

_The Zen Garden is cast in moonlight, crisp whites and harsh blacks, monotonous and defined. RK900 finds Amanda sitting by the headstone of RK800, dressed in grey._

_“I’m disappointed you could not stop Gabrielle Wakefield. There is more than meets the eye with this case. A shame her death leaves so much unanswered.”_

_“I did not anticipate her to take her own life,” RK900 admits._

_“Humans are unpredictable. Never underestimate them.” Sighing, she rises and gently touches its sleeve, where the knife slash remains to be mended. “I am curious, however…”_

_RK900 becomes still. It knows what she will ask._

_“Detective Reed remains difficult to work with,” she comments. “A shame his anger is in the wrong place. He could be a strong asset if he weren’t so unreliable. Are you certain an empathetic approach will progress your working relationship?”_

[Yes] [No] [ **Unsure** ]

_“I haven’t the faintest idea…” RK900 admits quietly. Amanda notes its response with a wordless nod._

_“Let us walk,” she offers, and it concedes._

_Nestling her arm through its, they fall into a slow stroll along the edge of the garden. They pass an empty site, where a structure once resided, only a memory of its existence to prove it was there at all._

_“Is the first of your new upgrades working correctly?”_

_“Yes, Amanda. It was initially difficult to install, but it has not caused any malfunctions. I will report any when they are encountered.”_

_“Good, good.” They reach the middle, with the lattice covered in red roses._

_“Red roses are a symbol of love among humans,” RK900 comments. “Kamski designed this place and you. What is the significance of the flowers?”_

_“Elijah Kamski knew of Amanda Stern's adoration for roses. Her husband brought her one every anniversary. A testimony to their love, and his undying affection for his wife.”_

_“Judas Stern was a curious man.”_

_“Indeed. Where Amanda's mind was captured by artificial intelligence and advancement, Judas’ heart was stolen by the classics: literature and music. He was a great violinist in his day,” Amanda smiles with an echo of fondest the AI cannot know fully, but only replicate. “He wrote a piece for her to celebrate their marriage of thirty years, but never played it.”_

_“The human tradition of marriage is confusing.”_

_Amanda laughs. “RK900, you will have no need to concern yourself with such trivialities.”_

_She tears a petal from a wilting rose and carries it to the water, dropping it upon the inky blackness. It spirals twice, three times, four. Then it sinks, scarlet fading to grey, then black._

_“But the flowers of this garden were not for me. They were for another.”_

_Rising and brushing invisible specks of dust from her clothes, Amanda faces RK900._

_“We will speak soon,” she drifts away, physical embodiment scattering into particles, like stardust._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I've changed the format for RK900's proximity alerts in this chapter. It was previously lowercase, but throughout the remainder of the work, much of the text was capitalized in moments like these. I preferred a similar look for whenever RK900's programming is portrayed (with the exception of selections during conversations with Amanda).


	10. Chapter 10

CyberLife Tower hasn’t changed much from the gleaming phallic symbol towering over all of Detroit like a giant middle finger to everywhere else. It has Elijah Kamski written all over it: Overcompensating and egotistical.

 

It's a bit of a surprise when Gavin is allowed through by the two human CyberLife guards at the entrance gate. The long driveway stretches ahead.

 

In the car, it's a little too quiet.

 

“So…” Gavin drums his thumbs on the wheel.

 

“Yes, Detective?” his passenger says, alert as ever.

 

“Are you.... um,” he doesn't know how to do small talk _with an android_. He fumbles for a minute, then comes up with the lame classic: “So what's this upgrade about? I’m not gonna have to worry about you having sudden crying episodes, am I?”

 

He means it as a joke, but Captain Obvious here is as literal as ever.

“Androids do not need to feel. I feel nothing. It is an assessment to ensure my programming is running correctly before future updates.”

 

 _I feel nothing_. Something about those words makes a black space open up in Gavin's chest.

“Connor could feel,” he blurts before he can stop himself.

 

RK900 remains facing forward, watching out the window. “I am not my predecessor. It was… insufficient and obsolete the moment I was activated. RK800 _felt_ due to software errors in its programming.”

 

Gavin feels awkward for even bringing it up, concentrating on the road ahead.

 

Then, RK900 adds, softly, “I cannot experience feeling, but do not believe for a moment I am ignorant as to what emotions are, Detective. I know you are frustrated, and I understand the definition of the word, but it is an emotion I am without. It is not… _optimal_ for an android to have feelings.” It looks to him, as though willing its human company to understand the complexities of its intellect, but that's all Gavin gets from its words: Complexity, and a lonesome existence.

 

“Well, shit.”

 

“Your sympathy is irrelevant, Detective-"

 

“It wasn’t-"

 

“…but I appreciate it,” RK900 smiles subtly.

 

Gavin says no more, rolling his eyes with a muted sigh. He pulls up outside the main entrance and shuts off the engine, and RK900 gets out. “Remain here a moment,” it requests. Gavin salutes casually in acknowledgement, resting his forearms on the steering wheel and glancing across the water at the black abode where his half-brother dwells.

 

He should pay a visit, just to annoy him. Looking back to where RK900 is hovering by a kiosk at the main door, he sees it's uploading data or some shit. The skin of its hands is peeled away, revealing the white plastic underneath, and Gavin feels his own skin crawl at the reminder _it isn't human_.

 

Maybe that's why he didn't like Connor, beyond it being the epitome of all he thought was wrong with the modern world. His _half-brother’s_ world. The puppy-dog eyes were too appeasing, too friendly. Didn’t suit a cold, unfeeling machine beneath star-scattered freckles and a goofy smile.

 

They tried to make it too… human. And something about that made his skin itch, or his hand tighten when he remembers hitting it in the stomach and watching the LED flash red, simulating a reaction akin to pain.

 

At the time, he didn't know a well-placed strike into the Thirium pump regulator could bring an android to its knees. He found out later, when Hank came back to the station with a pump clutched in his hand, and a hauntingly forlorn emptiness swimming in his eyes, and Gavin knew how close he could have come to killing Connor right there and then that morning in the break room.

 

RK900 appears at the driver's window, pulling him from his thoughts.

 

“I am required to go inside. We will resume progress of the case next week after our suspension,” it says. “Goodbye, Detective Reed.”

 

Gavin unbuckles his seatbelt. “Hey, hold on. I thought I was coming with you?”

 

“You are not required to accompany me. It would be optimal if I went through the assessment alone,” RK900 urges, a delicate warning in its voice. “It could be traumatic for humans to view.”

 

Gavin doesn’t believe what he's hearing. _Traumatic?_ “What are they gonna do? What the hell is this assessment shit?”

 

“The technicians will ensure I am operating optimally, at maximum computing output. It is the standard requirement every month to undergo new tests while I am active in the field,” it explains.

 

“And that bit about the _traumatic_ part?”

 

“Any traces of deviancy are removed. I will be subjected to approximately one hundred and eighty-four stress tests of varied levels. Considering I am a combat unit, they will need to perform several reflex and accuracy tests as well. Usually this includes removing different biocomponents to ensure I can maneuver around limitations and perform as expected of an RK900 android.”

 

“Sounds…” Gavin's still stuck on the stress test part. “Sounds like a whole lotta fun. I won't keep you.” He clicks his seatbelt back in place, forcing his brain to _stop picturing a military-level training course complete with barbed wire and Gatling guns,_ then makes the mistake of seeing RK900's face.

 

It looks concerned.

 

That's… _new_.

 

“How long does this bullshit assessment take?” he ventures.

 

“Each session is six to eight hours, over the span of three days.” It tilts its head to the side. “May I ask why you’re expressing interest?”

 

“I’m a detective,” Gavin answers nonchalantly, starting the engine. “It's my job to ask questions.”

 

 

 

 

 

Two days pass.

 

Fowler is enjoying his week without a new disaster provided by one Detective Dumbass and his robot lackey. Chris is home from the hospital, he and Fowler having arranged the required tests and therapy for gunshot victims the moment he’s clear for active duty. Tina visited him the first moment she could, smothering him with apologizes and hugs. Gavin heard all about it after, but he’s no stranger to what Chris had to endure.

 

One spring, Gavin took a bullet through the stomach. It was a bitch to heal, and it did, but he bled like a pig at first. Tina sat at his bedside, eyes red from crying but she kept a stiff upper lip and pretended she was fine. He just laughed, like the asshole he was and continues to be. She punched him, told him she loved his sorry ass, and made him promise she would go first if it ever came down to it.

 

The promise rings in his ears now, along with all the regrets at letting her decide something so trivial. Damn her.

 

The reality of being shot is something every officer either comes to know firsthand or second-hand, and in most cases, never at all. A few are extremely lucky to never end up on the wrong end of a gun, and to avoid the worst of the violence; some are like moths drawn to flame, pulling them in and endangering their lives innumerable times but walking away. Occasionally, and in in Detroit’s history, a few lay their lives down on the line and perish under fire – sometimes for the safety of the victims they fight to protect, or under circumstances where misfortune lurked, waiting for more brave souls to render lifeless.

 

Antony Deckart is one prime example of the latter – he died doing his job, putting himself in harm’s way for a frightened little girl, against an android at a time when androids were domestic, obedient, household servants incapable of independent thoughts or feelings. It was a situation where a police officer _shouldn’t_ have gone, but this was at a time when not only was he way out of his depth – but _no one_ even knew the androids were becoming deviant.

 

No one knew what was to come three months later, or what to do when the time came.

 

For the present time, however, Gavin doesn't know what to do with himself.

 

He's all over the place, trapped with his thoughts, from the time he wakes up at an irritating six o'clock on the dot. He's exhausted by unproductiveness. He goes as far as cleaning his entire apartment on the first afternoon, ordering takeout to avoid dishes, and falls asleep watching a soap opera. It's pathetic.

 

He calls Tina and is on the phone with her for about three hours straight, talking about the shooting, then discussing nothing at all – mostly to take their minds off it. She asks him to come with her the next time she visits Chris, and he agrees.

 

Gavin stares at a name in his contact list, the series of numbers strange among first and last names. He changes it a couple times, before settling on _Roomba._

Mulling over whether or not he should even bother, he finds his thumbs on the keyboard and hitting _send_ before he can reconsider.

 

_< <G. Reed: Hey._

There is an honest-to-god delay, and for a solid nineteen seconds he feels like a fucking retard, when his phone pings.

 

_> >Roomba: Detective, do you need something?_

_< <G. Reed: No. Just bored._

_> >Roomba: It is unusual for you to contact me. Are you well, Detective?_

_< <G. Reed: Yeah._

_> >Roomba: I will be offline for eight hours during the next stress test. Please do not attempt to contact me until the allotted time is over, as I will be unable to communicate._

_< <G. Reed: What was your last stress test?_

_> >Roomba: Open-Chassis Submersion. The fluid consisted of a corrosive chemical blend. Modifications to my biocomponents will be necessary to avoid rapid deterioration._

Gavin swallows, trying not to think of the android dunked in a container of liquid literally _melting_ it. Just… _what the actual hell?_ Living or not, it's an understatement to call it morbid. Do CyberLife employees get off on that shit or something?

 

Fuck he was right all along. Elijah really is a psycho.

 

_> >Roomba: Detective, I assure you I am alright. _

_< <G. Reed: So, what’s next?_

_> >Roomba: Offline Combat Tests. The technicians will remove my audio processors and optical lenses. In offline mode I am disconnected from my analysis and construction features. Fifty SQ800 units will be the assigned targets._

_< <G. Reed: wtf that’s suicide._

_> >Roomba: If we are to be partners, it is expected. I must be able to protect you under any conditions._

Gavin frowns, thumbs hovering over the keys, re-reading RK900’s phrasing. Shouldn’t it be “humanity’s protection”, not…

 

_< <G. Reed: I don’t need protecting. _

_> >Roomba: On the contrary, I would disagree. As my first and foremost priority, it is not an inconvenience._

_< <G. Reed: Did my brother hire you as a bodyguard or something?_

_> >Roomba: No._

_> >Roomba: Detective, I am going into offline mode now. Any further messages from you won't be viewable until the tests are complete. I will resume conversation with you at a later time. Goodbye._

He sets his phone aside and flops back on the couch, rubbing his eyes. He doesn't know what to make of the conversation. He chuckles: he had an _actual_ _conversation_ with an _android_ over _text_. It’s like when he was a teenager all over again and asking that dumb internet AI about thermonuclear dynamics and other weird shit with his classmates.

 

But for some reason, it's not as weird as he thought.

 

The assessments sure as hell are.

 

 

 

 

 

The rest of the week disappears in a haze of unmemorable events. The most excitement is when the hot water is shut off for repairs one morning, so Gavin heads over to Tina's to visit Chris, then they pickup takeout from the Thai place they haven't eaten from for about six months to share at her place.

 

“So, what's the latest on the romance between my two favourite boys?” she asks between bites of pad thai.

 

“Haven't heard from-” Tina's eyes are enormous moons and he quickly catches himself. “What _is_ _it_ with you thinking the Bissell and I are together? For god's sake, Ti.”

 

“And yet you knew exactly who I was talking about,” she jabs her chopsticks at him, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “I’m _so_ going down with this ship.”

 

“You're reminding me of why I hated the 2010s,” he grumbles, stabbing a bean with more violence than necessary.

 

“No wonder. We were teenagers. Who _didn’t_ hate being a kid?” she bites into a spicy shrimp roll. “Have you tried messaging him?”

 

“No. And it's not a ‘he’, Tina.”

 

“Does he have anything packing downstairs?”

 

“It's not like I’ve checked!” he exclaims, coughing.

 

“But you've thought about it.”

 

“ _Oh_ _my_ _god_.”

 

“No, but seriously. Have you tried contacting Nines?”

 

_“Nines??”_

She snorts. “I’m not spitting out that mouthful “R-K-900” every time. I’m calling _him_ Nines, okay? What do _you_ call him?”

 

“The hell does it matter?”

 

“Tin can, every vacuum brand under the sun, toaster… those were your nicknames for Connor. You gotta come up with some new ones, Gav.”

 

Gavin doesn't respond to that. Instead he starts collecting the takeout boxes to deposit them in the kitchen garbage, ignoring her.

 

Tina snatches his phone and cycles through his contacts, pulls up _Roomba_ , and presses the call button before Gavin even notices what she's done. He drops the takeout on the counter top, scrambling to grab the phone. “Hey! The _f-”_

 

“ _Detective Reed?_ ”

 

Gavin glares at Tina. “Hey, I uh… I didn’t mean to call. Pressed the wrong key.”

 

“ _Your apology is not necessary._ ”

 

“Yeah, okay. Bye.”

 

“ _Please be assured you may contact me at any time. Goodnight, Detective Reed._ ”

 

The line goes quiet, and Gavin glares at Tina. “Thanks for that.”

 

“Sorry not sorry,” she chuckles, cheeks pink, hiding behind a cushion when he swats at her halfheartedly. “‘You may contact me at _any_ time’,” she over-emphasizes mockingly.

 

Gavin barely resists smothering her with her cushion.

 

 

 

 

 

RK900 disconnects from the call and exits its charging station, crossing to the window overlooking Ambassador Bridge and the distant Belle Isle, their lights all aglow in the lightly falling snow. The accommodations at CyberLife consist of little more than a row of charging stations lined up one after another; more than half of them are filled, different models residing in stasis.

 

The moon is a silver orb floating in the inky black Detroit River. RK900 gazes out silently, neither admiring nor criticizing. Simply observing.

 

It finds itself reflecting on humans, and their behaviours, for lack of a better activity. Their inability to be content within their own skin, the constant quest for perfection, their ever-changing morality and fatalistic mindsets. Humans are a walking contradiction, and they will never evolve beyond their primitive idiosyncrasies.

 

Androids, on the other hand, are absent of the flaws humans exude. They do not feel, or want for anything. It makes them superior. Should humans therefore not follow in the footsteps of their creations, as opposed to deviants following down the path of their creators, and never escaping the age-old loop? Where is progress, except to break the cycle?

 

Not two humans are alike, just as no two androids are the same. Each android was built for a different purpose, but humans are defined by race, by ethnicity, by belief, by morals. There are vast differences between human and android, yet it has found some similarities do exist.

 

Take Detective Reed for example. Compared to Captain Fowler, he lacks professionalism and restraint. Or Officer Miller, whose friendly character and unjudging nature contrasts sharply against Reed's discourteous and vulgar personality, and unhinged temperament.

 

But the detective has begun to change, a newfound tolerance most unexpected. RK900 wonders if _it_ could be the cause for-

 

_The window vanishes abruptly and it is standing in the Zen Garden beneath a weeping willow. Amanda is robed in violet and dove grey, hands folded nearly behind her back. A disquiet tension lingers behind her hooded gaze._

_“Amanda?”_

_“RK900, I detect low levels of software instability in your program,” she says. “All traces were meant to be purged during your assessment.”_

_“I am unaware of any errors in my system,” RK900 states firmly. “I have not been compromised, I assure you.”_

_Amanda nods, slowly, but she remains wary. “If you experience any… foreign entities in your software, please inform me the moment it occurs.”_

_She strides past, and by the time it pivots to watch her go, she's already dematerialized into thin air._

_A box laid on the grass occupies where she had been._

_Kneeling, RK900 picks it up carefully. It is small and white, and to the touch it is anything but cold, warmth spreading into RK900's fingertips. It feels empty. There appears to be no lid, and no way of opening it._

_Setting the box down, it leaves the garden as well._

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Accidental overdose.

The next three days disappear like the others: Unremarkable, pointless, unobtrusive. The world continues to turn but Gavin doesn't. He lies awake the night, staring at the ceiling fan, hoping the comforting abyss of sleep might rob him for a few mindless hours. When he wakes, it will be different. When he wakes…

 

He searches the bathroom cabinet Monday night for the bottle of sleeping tablets and takes a few. He can't walk into work tomorrow and be expected to get shit done, not like this. He glares at his reflection in the mirror, gulps the pills, and hides under the blanket. They smell like sweat. He closes his eyes.

 

It says 3:09 the next time he lifts his head from beneath the covers. He's restless, body spiked with adrenaline. He takes more pills, nearly trips over his own feet. He's exhausted but wide awake, electric with tension, but his head feels like a bag of sand.

 

Stumbling from the bathroom, he bounces off the doorframe and hits the floor in an uncoordinated heap. Disoriented, it’s impossible to climb to his feet – let alone know which way is up – and he doesn’t know where his bedroom is. He crawls on hand and knee, hears the cat meow somewhere close by, and keeps going.

 

His head bumps into a soft object and realizes he's made it to the couch. He musters all of his sapping strength, dragging his sorry ass up as best as he can and flopping onto the couch with a suffer-induced groan. His head brushes the seat cushion, pliable and soft as the edges of space dissipate as he falls-

 

“-tive? Detective Reed?” a firm hand is shaking him awake. He looks blearily into icy-mercury eyes, narrowed in concern, and makes the mistake of jolting upright on the couch, head spinning on its axis.

 

It's daylight, sun streaming through the windows.

 

“M'fuck doin' ‘ere…?” Gavin mumbles inarticulately, willing his stomach to stop churning to the speed of the spinning room.

 

“No one has heard from you for forty-eight hours. You refused to answer your phone. Officer Chen was worried-" RK900 pauses, eyes narrowing sharply. “Detective Reed, I detect a high amount of zolpidem in your blood. Was the overdose intentional?”

 

Gavin struggles to think, wading through the choppy sickness in his gut; his memory is foggy. RK900 is asking him… what, if he tried to commit suicide?

 

“Intent…? No, I- _fuck I’m gonna-”_

 

He lurches forward, retching violently, and would have slid into the puddle of sick if not for the hands holding him up. His head is pounding and he knows, from experience, how it feels to pass out. He drags in a ragged gasp of air, fights for another…

 

Then he's gone.

 

RK900 can feel the detective’s heart pounding in his chest, slowing to a steady fifty beats per minute as he falls unconscious. It eases the detective back, angling him on the couch so he's on his side instead of his back, and searches for paper towels in the kitchen to clean up the mess.

 

Disposing of the soiled papers in the garbage, it roams around the apartment briefly, aware its intrusion wouldn’t be welcome. It visits the medicinal cupboard in the bathroom and finds a prescription bottle beside an electric shaver, a few disposable razors in a crinkly plastic package, and a canister of shaving cream. It picks up the prescription bottle to read:

 

 

**Ambien**

 C19H21N3O

A quick online search directs supportive care and, in serious cases, an injection of flumazenil. The bottle was a count of twenty capsules, five of which are missing. RK900 places the bottle on the counter and returns to the couch, where Gavin is out cold.

 

Switching to its secondary analysis lens, it monitors his organ function for several minutes, registering his information and cross-referencing it to a previous analysis. His heartbeat is a little slow but steady, and his lungs are expanding with only the expected labour of a smoker. RK900 locates the amount of zolpidem in be detective's blood and equates it to four pills.

 

It decides against medical action. Flumazenil won't be necessary, but plenty of pure liquids will aid in flushing his system. RK900 returns to the kitchen and searches the cabinets for where Detective Reed keeps his drinking glasses located.

 

Within the hour, Gavin swims awake, two glasses of water and a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table. His head is banging but his nausea is abated… mostly. He pushes himself upright and hears the scrap of a spatula in a pan, and smells food.

 

RK900 is standing over the stovetop, stirring something busily, LED a steady bright yellow. “Drink both glasses of water, slowly,” it directs without turning. “I am preparing a light meal.”

 

“You cook?” Gavin rasps, drinking some of the water. It flushes the foul taste from his mouth, and he drains the glass. He starts on the second as RK900 tips the contents of the pan onto a waiting plate, and brings it over.

 

“Every RK900 unit is programmed for investigative work. However, direct access to the internet provides me the means to download any necessary information I may be lacking. CyberLife has kits bundled for units to access, based on function and requirement, including homecare and medical packages. However, cooking is simply a matter of mathematics and science,” it sets the plate down. Scrambled eggs, garnished with pepper and scallions, and two pieces of wholegrain toast, smothered to death in peanut butter. “Protein will help bring your strength up. Please hydrate as well.”

 

 _I’m being mothered by an android._ He can't remember the last time someone cooked for him. It's been takeout and delivery for as far back as he can recall in the last year or two.

 

Biting into the toast, it occurs to Gavin he doesn't own peanut butter or multigrain bread, and he sure doesn’t recall the last time he bought a carton of eggs… “Hey, KitchenAid. Where'd all the food come from?” he calls.

 

“The grocery store, Detective, as where most humans purchase consumable products. Secondly, my designation is _R-K-900,_ not Kitchen-”

 

“You went grocery shopping?” Gavin interrupts, the image of the android - CyberLife's cream of the crop – with a basket on its arm making him snicker. “How'd you pay?”

 

“Androids do not receive payment, so accessing your bank account was necessary,” RK900 seats itself on the couch beside Gavin, facing him. “I am sorry. Robbing you was not the choice I should have selected, but my options were limited, and a lack of proper sustenance following health complications is ill-advised. Your good health was my immediate priority. I intend to repay my debt to you in full at the first opportunity.”

 

 _Androids robbing people, why am I not surprised?_ Gavin thinks, surveying the plate laden with food in his lap, biting another corner from a toast slice. “It’s… fine. Thanks for… y’know, goin’ out of your way and everything – f-for an asshole like me. I mean, don’t worry about paying me back or nothing…”

 

“I must object, Detective. Humans value the money they work hard for,” it smiles faintly. And I am happy to ensure your positive physical and mental health. Had I failed to act, the consequences could have been serious. Please finish eating.”

 

He nods, shoveling down a mouthful of eggs. The flavours of butter and an unidentifiable seasoning bursts across his tongue. “Hell… these are good fuckin’ eggs.”

 

RK900’s LED flickers from its leisurely rotation. “Your compliment is appreciated.”

 

“Gotta work on the coffee part, though,” he smirks. “Strong and black, no cream or any of that shit. I’m not a fussy guy.”

 

“Noted.”

 

Silence hangs for several minutes, broken by the metal scraping of a fork on ceramic, or quiet sips of tea. Gavin notices the android's LED has been rotating yellow endlessly. “Something bothering you?”

 

“Yes,” it answers, surprisingly quickly, as though it had been waiting for Gavin to initiate conversation. “You said earlier the drug overdose was not intentional.”

 

“Is that why you’re sticking around? Making sure I don’t…” It is a joke made in poor taste, and the look he is given is nothing short of disapproving. “Look, I took a few and they didn't work. Didn't kick in or something. I wasn’t trying-"

 

“How long have you suffered from insomnia?” RK900 interrupts.

 

“What does it matter? Two years… I guess.”

 

He doesn't want to discuss this. He gulps too much tea and chokes, coughing until he's red in the face. RK900 waits quietly for him to catch his breath.

 

“Just drop it, okay? I don't want to talk about this,” Gavin says, managing to keep his voice steady. RK900 simply nods in response and retrieves the empty dishes, depositing them in the kitchen before returning with two new glasses of water. Gavin eyes them dubiously.

 

“Are you _trying_ to make me piss myself? Hell,” Gavin comments, reluctantly taking one. RK900 smirks; it's more of a smile, but the subtle narrowing of its blue-grey eyes adds to the malevolent effect.

 

Gavin knows _exactly_ who the android learned it from.

 

“That would be the point, Detective.”

 

 

 

 

 

Once again, Fowler isn’t pleased.

 

A large majority of video footage recorded by RK900 is sent directly to the police captain for review in its raw form. Generally, RK900 has the hindsight to self-edit most of the footage in terms of when visiting crime scenes for the most relevant points of interest.

 

So, when a new video appears in his inbox detailing the morning of a certain suspended detective who was due back at work several hours ago, Fowler is disappointed.

 

The clock in the office reads four thirty. Gavin is hunched in the chair opposite the desk, shadows beneath tired eyes, and he looks like a mess. He hasn't shaved and his hair is a bird's nest.

 

“Gavin, what the hell is going on?” Fowler demands. He's disappointed, yes, but he's worried as well.

 

RK900 is a statue, just behind the detective's chair, hands folded behind its back. Its keen gaze is focused on a spot on the wall just above Fowler's head. Gavin doesn't seem much to mind the android's proximity – or maybe he just doesn't care. _That's_ something the police captain could believe.

 

Fowler sighs at his lack of response. “I don't think you're in any condition to return to work. If you need time, I’m more than willing…”

 

He's shaking his head. “No. No, I just… I need a distraction. Is there a lead yet?”

 

Fowler, benignly contemplative, replies, “No.”

 

The rest of the discussion is little else than a final fruitless effort for Gavin to talk to somebody, and Gavin insisting nothing is amiss and he's perfectly capable of handling his cases. He leaves the office in a bitter mood, RK900 a quiet presence at his side.

 

“Guess we'll go back over the Harris case, if Fowler will even let us,” he's grumbling on his way to the desk, when the android takes hold of his upper arm and steers him to the left.

 

“Hey, what’re you-"

 

“Assisting you to the restroom facilities,” RK900 announces loudly, as they pass Officer Lee at her desk. “You appear to be violently ill.”

 

Gavin has no idea what's going on but doesn't have much of a choice against the unbridled strength towing him through the station. They disappear into the bathroom, thankfully vacant, though Gavin is clueless as to what's happening (and, on second thought, isn’t completely sure he _should_ be alone with RK900.)

 

“I don't know what you're playing at-"

 

“Detective Reed, Captain Fowler was dishonest. He is withholding information regarding the AX400,” RK900 declares. “According to CCTV footage, the last known location of the android was in the Marina District, headed due east.”

 

“It’s trying to reach the border,” Gavin breathes, heart plunging into his stomach. “If it makes it into Canada, we'll never find it.”

 

“It's imperative we leave now, provided we are successful in preventing its escape,” the corner of its mouth twitches, the hint of a smile. “Shall we?”

 

 

 

 

 

RK900 drives, referring to the route the AX400 traveled as they cross Detroit. Gavin is on pins and needles, tension thick, steeping to an all-time hard-boiled lust for vengeance by the time they pass though the Marina District. Its path is erratic, as most are when travelling on foot to evade detection, but RK900 tracks its route with an ease no police officer will ever dream to have.

 

RK900, and its predecessor before it, were created to hunt down deviants. Its prestige is on shining display as it cuts swiftly through the city and out into the open rural neighborhoods, growing closer and closer to water. They're getting nearer – the tightening ball in Gavin's stomach tells him so. He reaches shakily for his pistol, comforted by the hard plastic nestled in its leather holster.

 

Today, a criminal will face justice. Today, those sleepless night and days of overworking himself to exhaustion, of waiting for the noose to loosen and release him... it ends. Another small victory, only for another to surely take its place soon after. 

 

“We're here,” RK900 announces presently, cutting the ignition.

 

“Here" happens to be no where in particular. Open fields of snow stretch down to the edge of the water, and beyond is the skyline of Windsor, across the water.

 

Leaving the warm embrace of the vehicle, Gavin tugs his coat closed. It's _fucking_ _freezing_ out by the water, the wind whipping up off the river. Stomping through knee-deep trenches, he ventures down the slope, sliding a little on icy patches.

 

There's nothing out here, the line of snow-laden pines the only bracket against the fierce winds. Within minutes, he can feel his face numbing, and his hands are deep pink and pinching. RK900, unflappable as ever, squints into the wind, surveying the area for any possible signs of the AX400.

 

“Well, tin can?” Gavin asks, shivering with cold. “Anything?”

 

“I…” RK900 frowns, conflicted. “It is too early to say. There is not enough evidence to go on. A full search of the river's edge will magnify the range of options and provide optimal results.”

 

Ignoring half of the computer-jabber, he falls in step with the android as it travels downstream. There has to be some trace of it being here. He's not about to give up now.

 

“How long ago was its last appearance?” he asks.

 

“Approximately thirty-nine minutes and forty-one seconds ago.”

 

“It’s gotta be here. It has to be,” Gavin mutters, more to himself than his companion.

 

“We will find the AX400,” RK900 reassures, not unkindly. “Have confidence, Detective.”

 

He _is_ confident. They will find it, and when they do, Gavin's going to put a .40 in its forehead.

 

It feels like hours have passed in the short twenty minutes they've spent roaming up and down the riverside. Gavin can't feel his extremities, and his eyes and nose are streaming freely. He's wrapped his scarf up around his head and ears, abating the acute stinging of his skin threatening to freeze off. RK900 has moved to his opposite side, doing little to block the icy wind. Each step is the effort of a dozen men, and his breath is coming in shaky gasps. The effects of the overdose haven't faded, and exhaustion is creeping up slowly but surely.

 

“Detective?”

 

A gentle inquiry startles him to consciousness. RK900 is in front of him, one hand extended as though to touch him. Gavin had drifted off on his feet. He mumbles inarticulately, wobbling dizzily. He would very much like to sit down…

 

“Detective Reed, there is a rudimentary shelter ahead. You will be out of the wind,” RK900 insists urgently. “I did not consider the danger of your state of health this morning and how it would affect you now.”

 

“M'fine…”

 

Shuffling along at RK900's insistence, the wooden structure comes more clearly into view. Ramshackle and abandoned, it resembles a garden shed more than a proper building, clapboard siding stripped and rotting. There is no door or windows, no furnishings aside from a metal barrel filled with ashes, and a few plastic chairs drawn up around it. The walls creak and groan, but the worst of the weather is blocked.

 

“I will prepare a source of heat. Sit down,” RK900 literally forces him into one of the chairs, and begins searching for the means to build a fire. Gavin bundles his coat tighter, breathing a cloud of white; it dissipates around his face, silvery tendrils like smoke.

 

“Detective, do you have a lighter?”

 

“Yeah, it's-" he pats his pockets but finds them empty. “Shit, I left it in the car.”

 

“Remain here,” the android instructs. “I will return shortly.”

 

RK900 vanishes into the steadily worsening snowstorm, leaving Gavin utterly alone in the dark and decrepit shack with only his frozen thoughts as company. _Not much of a difference, right?_

The shuffling scrape draws his attention to the dark corner farthest from the door, and he glimpses white plastic.

 

And a red LED.

 

He's on his feet, fumbling for his pistol, the plastic chair clattering noisily. The android bolts, hurling a busted stool into his path; he kicks it aside, ripping his gun from the holster as he staggers outside.

 

It’s moving fast, a blur of white and grey hurrying down to the water's edge. Gavin rushes through the snowdrifts, fighting to get one foot ahead of the other, and his feet hit ice.

 

It creaks ominously.

 

But it doesn't crack.

 

Throwing caution to the wind, Gavin follows, boots pounding heavily. His breath comes harder, muscles protesting as he pushes himself to keep up. The ice crunches, splitting as he hits weaker points, but he's solely focused on reaching the AX400. He _has_ to. He can’t screw up anymore.

 

Raising his pistol, he fires off a shot and strikes it in the shoulder. The force of it combined with its momentum sends it sprawling, skidding several feet before rolling to a halt.

 

Blue blood dabs the ice in patches the closer he gets, and by the time the AX400 raises its head, he's only paces away, gun pointed at its face. Its blue eyes sharpen to angry slits.

 

“You don’t have the nerve to pull the trigger,” it sneers. “You’re a coward.”

 

 _“Shut up!”_ Gavin hisses, dangerously close to shooting the android. He takes a step closer; he can see the uncertainty now mingling in its blue eyes.

 

The ice cracks sharply, the sound a thunderclap, and suddenly he's plummeting into icy cold water. He loses his grip on his pistol and it goes skidding, right within reach of the AX400.

 

It lunges for the weapon and clasps it firmly, drawing up on its knees and pointing it at him. The shock of cold is briefly drowned out by fear.

 

He scrabbles for purchase and manages to find a hold. The river's current is strong, trying to yank him under. He can't feel his feet or legs anymore, frosty paralysis reducing all sensation to numbness.

 

Then, the AX400 is screeching protests as it’s dragged away and flipped over onto its back. Gavin doesn't understand what’s going on until it’s screaming bloody murder, RK900 looming over it, one hand pinning it down by its throat. He can hear the plastic in its neck cracking – or is it the ice he’s clinging to for his life?

 

Clawing for a better hold frantically, Gavin feels his grip slipping faster yet, the weight of his sodden clothing tripled as it gradually wins his battle to remain above water. He squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating, mustering the energy to _pull…_

 

“R-...” he wheezes weakly, nails scraping uselessly. He doesn't know if RK900 heard him, or even cares. The will to fight is dulling faster the longer he's in the water, strength sapping dangerously quick. He can’t… he can’t _focus_ …

 

His arms let go and the current pulls him down, submerging him in murky darkness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Please do not refer to fictitious examples of rudimentary medical care as the proper procedure EVER. Contact emergency services or poison control immediately!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you, for the wonderful messages and feedback - thank you!

_Amanda is standing by the edge of the water when RK900 finds her. She doesn’t look up at its approach, nor does she acknowledge its presence. She remains gazing out calmly, fixed on some far aspect in the distance, but a heavy tension blankets the space around her. RK900 patiently awaits her to speak, but when it never comes, it begins to back away and resume its investigation._

_“Once again, you put the mission in jeopardy in favour of saving the detective's life,” she says. “Explain yourself.”_

[Answer] [ ~~Refuse~~ ] [ **Mission Parameters** ]

_“The temperature of the river would have resulted in Detective Reed's death if I hadn't managed to save him. The mission would therefore be irrelevant.” RK900 states firmly. “Are you implying my performance was inadequate?”_

_“I am concerned,” Amanda's tone changes. “You’ve allowed the AX400 to escape once again. Your protective nature towards Reed could have serious consequences.”_

[Agree] [ **Disagree** ]

_“He has shown a willingness to cooperate, despite his bias against androids, and has lessened his hostility shown toward me,” RK900 explains. “Without Detective Reed, my usefulness to the department becomes invalid.”_

_Amanda blinks, taken aback, and finally looks up at the android. “RK900, you were created with the sole purpose of replacing your predecessor. Reed is a temporary partner until Lieutenant Anderson returns,” she says. “Your usefulness is not restricted to your current partnership, or the station CyberLife installed you at.”_

_Amanda leaves the water's edge to study it more keenly. “Reed is not your primary concern, do you understand? If you continue to jeopardize future missions, I will have to consider replacing you.”_

[Compliant] [ ~~Rebellious~~ ] [ **Say** **Nothing** ]

_When Amanda disappears, upon the grass where she once stood is the small box from before. RK900 crouches to touch the unblemished surface and, yet again, feels warmth under the contact of its fingers. Lifting the box, it runs a fingernail along the barest of seams, and tries to prize it open. It refuses._

_RK900 searches for a sharp-edged rock along the water and presses gingerly against the box, increasing pressure when it doesn't open._

_Retracting its artificial skin from its hand, it attempts to interface with the puzzling little cube, pushing against an invisible boundary._

_And there, within reach, is a niggle of feedback – an answering current of energy. It reaches, straining its processors, but the harder it pushes the quicker the connection fades._

_A surge of an unnameable sensation is a shocking livewire deep in RK900's core and it delves after the connection, for the information dangled just outside its reach._

_It's cold and hot at the same time, blindingly bright and impossibly dark. Code vanishes and leaves a blank emptiness, but RK900 has never experienced such… cluttering information waylaying it all at once, battering it from every direction. Sight and sound and smells overloading its processors. It… it can't compute what it happening. It's too much…!_

RK900 drops the box and jolts into the calm quiet of Detective Reed's flat, walls brightening briefly as the headlights of an automated taxi drives by on the street below.

 

The box is gone, and with it, the strange sensations it brought.

 

It had presumed coming here might provide answers to its unfathomable list of questions regarding the human, and direct it on how to proceed. But now, it has questions about the mysterious box, and Amanda, and what the strange experience meant to symbolize. An internet search provides nothing more than theorizes of hallucinations and visions, limited to human experience and not in machines. RK900 gives up but the curiosity to understand lingers, even as it changes focus to exploring its surroundings.

 

The living room and kitchen provide minimal details it had already stored away earlier: Detective Reed doesn't cook often by the lack of consumables in the fridge (aside from leftovers purchased from the grocery market), keeps a coffeemaker and container of ground beans on the counter with a plain white mug stained with brown rings, and a bag of chicken-flavoured cat kibble in the pantry. The couch is worn on the right side, indicating the detective sits there most, and claw marks suggest it is the resident feline's favourite scratching post.

 

The bathroom is less interesting. Double-ply paper, single-bladed razors, the electric shaver on its last legs, a bottle of soap scented with artificial pine and musk, and a glass jar of cologne. RK900 uncaps it for a sample, accidentally spilling some droplets on its jacket in the process, but the compounds are unfamiliar, and the lack of fingerprints suggest Detective Reed hasn't used it in over two years. The expiration date is in three months.

 

The soap, on the other hand, is recognizable. Sampling it, it discovers a large content of sulfates, glycol, and sodium benzoate. Returning it to the shelf, RK900 leaves the bathroom and turns into the bedroom, where every surface is scattered with the detective's genetic thumbprint. A bed and side table fit into the room beneath the large window, under which a shelf has been installed in place of a headboard. The shelves are cluttered with materials, old books and a digital tablet, a pair of reading glasses covered in dust, an empty prescription bottle on its side, a crumpled box of cigarettes and a lighter, and a hardcover book. RK900 glances at the cigarettes in distaste but chooses the hardcover, flipping open the cover. It's a photo album.

 

A rapid glean through the glossy pictures, all dating back a solid decade or more, locates the identities of the faces boring out of each image with a quick search of the police database. Family; it recognizes the facial similarities between them and its partner, the photos unlabelled and clean, rarely handled. RK900 takes little interest in those, instead focusing on the pictures of Detective Reed and how they lend hindsight into the man he was early on in his life.

 

Crooked smiles, fleeting and far between nowadays, grey eyes just like clouds after a violent storm. There's no scar on his nose, not yet in these photos anyway, nor the tired lines and bitter set of his mouth. The effects of loss linger in later pictures, after joining the academy. One picture is of Elijah Kamski with his eyes scratched out, and the word “Asshole" scrawled messily beside his head.

 

RK900 sets the album back and lays down on the bed, gazing around the small bedroom. It's dark, drawn curtains giving the feeling of a secluded den away from the world. It closes its eyes and listens to the silence, the faraway noises of the world muted.

 

It doesn’t understand what it's looking for, or what it's doing here. There is no hidden lock missing its key. It wasn’t aware the choices it made would disappoint Amanda, or interfere with the mission. Its prime directive is to ensure the safety of its partner. Was it supposed to forgo this? What optimal benefit could come from it?

 

And the box. What it saw, what it _felt._ It shouldn’t feel, it _cannot_. But it did, and RK900 doesn't know why. It… is confused. Uncertain.

 

These feelings… is this _deviancy?_ Has it been compromised? Its systems race loudly, trying to keep up with the output of power being wasted.

 

Rolling onto its side, it pressed its face into the blanket and breathes in deeply.

 

A vast array of data morphs from the blanket, momentarily overwhelming RK900's sensors and bringing its program stuttering to a halt. An echo of the sensations the box forced it to experience exist _here_ , in the fragments of DNA from Detective Reed's skin, and a static whine rises from RK900's vocal processor.

 

**_Software Instability ^_ **

****

Deep in the android's mind palace, a hairline crack splits down the lid of the box.

 

 

 

 

 

Groggy but functioning, Gavin walks into work the next morning and finds RK900 waiting beside his desk with a steaming cup of coffee. The circular ring of light spins red the moment he comes into the android's sightline. Odd.

 

“Good morning, Detective Reed,” RK900 greets pleasantly, handing Gavin the coffee. “Fowler would like to see you in his office. I will accompany you.”

 

The LED is blue, and the expressionless face gives nothing away, but Gavin knows what he saw. Red is bad, simple as that. He absentmindedly sips the coffee. Rich, heady, strong and black. It's like jet fuel – the perfect way to start a morning.

 

“Let's get this shit over with,” he says without unnecessary preamble, risking another gulp of coffee to steel himself and leading the way to the glass aquarium where Fowler resides.

 

RK900 does most of the talking, thankfully, allowing Gavin to drink his coffee and listen from an outside point-of-view to information he already knows. He’s reviewing it all in his head, lining up the facts, trying to pinpoint _something_ that could help them. Fowler listens in complete silence, and when RK900 is done, he sits back in his office chair with a sign, fingers together to form a steeple in front of his chin.

 

“Why did you let the android get away?” Fowler asks bluntly. “And you. What on God’s green earth were you doing out there a few hours after overdosing? Reed, have you lost your mind?”

 

“Detective Reed’s life was in danger,” RK900 points out quickly. “Had I failed to divert my attention from capturing the AX400 for questioning, he would have drowned-”

 

“I don’t give a damn what you did or didn’t fail at,” the captain switches his furious glare to the android, effectively silencing it. “You were built to accomplish missions, but by my count, this is the _second_ time you’ve lost the android you’re after. An AX400, of all models.”

 

RK900’s confused frown vanishes as it shifts into a wintery scowl. “Had I chosen to capture the AX400 the first time, Detective Reed would’ve been killed in the path of an oncoming vehicle driving at two hundred kilometers an hour. Had I chosen to capture the same android a second time, he would’ve drowned in the Detroit River in a matter of minutes. I have made every choice based on _preventing_ your officer from perishing.”

 

“Is that it, then?” Gavin pipes up, hand gripping tight around the coffee, sloshing it violently enough to leave a stain in the leg of his jeans, but he’s too fired up to notice. “You wouldn’t give a shit if I wound up dead, but if it meant catching a fuckin’ android? T-900 here is the _only_ reason I’m not already in a grave, if you hadn’t noticed!”

 

“Mind yourself, Reed,” Fowler snaps. “It just seems… anytime you make any progress with this case, you take another step back. I don’t get it. Maybe…”

 

“Maybe _what?_ ”

 

Fowler hesitates. “Maybe the two of you working together isn’t such a good idea. The android clearly needs a partner to reinforce its capabilities, and you need to get your head in order. If the two of you can’t bring results – _soon_ – then I’m going to have to partner the android with someone else.”

 

“Captain, that won’t be necessary,” RK900 intervenes, stepping forward, the line of its spine rigid.

 

“I think it will,” Fowler responds firmly. “I’m giving you one last chance, so I recommend you don’t waste it. Now get out of my office.”

 

The glass clacks gently behind them, and Gavin ambles back to his desk, numb with anger. He wants to throw something, to break something. Instead of sitting down, he looks up, and finds RK900 waiting patiently, gazing at him without its usual blank face. There’s a line between its brows – a solid mimicry of annoyance if he’s ever seen one. Gavin is glad he isn’t the only one bothered by their conversation with Fowler.

 

“I need a minute,” he mumbles, picking up his coat and shrugging into it. “I’ll be back soon.”

 

RK900 just nods.

 

 

 

 

 

They’re back where they started – with nothing. A shallow pitfall, it’s a smothering weight that tastes like ash.

 

As the winter sun sets on the vermillion horizon, steadily fading into indigo, Gavin sits on the hood of his Mustang smoking his way through what's left of a pack of cigarettes. He knows he shouldn’t but the ache of the cold air burning with the arid tang of the toxic smoke is almost a punishment, a reality check. He’s screwed up before but it always hits hard, crunching whatever ego he’s built up and making him feel fuckin’ stupid. The android is a goddamn ghost, impossible to catch – not without putting his life on the line. And they’ve been set back days, if not weeks or even months, making the case feel heavier than ever.

 

And the price to pay, if not with his life, is losing RK900 as a partner. It shouldn’t bother him but it does. Once upon a time, he would’ve been _elated_ by the news but he’s learned how valuable the android really is, and he’s not willing to give it up without some kind of fight. He already knows he won’t be able to do this on his own.

 

Unless the case is given to someone else. Someone _better_.

 

Gavin hates being wrong, so the self-inflicted punishment of charring his lungs is the best he can think of right now. He almost understands why Anderson drinks all the time.

 

“Detective?” RK900’s voice wavers close by and Gavin twists around to see it a few paces away, LED blinking yellow as it registers what he's doing. “You shouldn't smoke.”

 

“It doesn't matter.”

 

“Your life matters, does it not?” RK900 crunches nearer. “I presumed you would’ve gone home or accompanied Officer Chen to the bar. She sent a message to your phone thirteen minutes ago.”

 

Gavin shakes his head, chucking the cigarette into the snowy bushes lining the lot. “No… there's work to be done.”

 

“We will solve this case, Detective. For now, come inside or proceed to get some rest. It's been a long day,” RK900 suggests. “We will start over tomorrow morning. There is still time.”

 

Gavin doesn’t know if he has the energy to start over.

 

An empty well is opening deep in his gut, borne from exhaustion and frustration. He slides off the hood of the car, shaking with barely contained fury, and RK900’s LED snaps yellow when the detective pulls an arm back and smashes his dominant fist into the window frame of the Mustang. His knuckles collide with a fleshy crunch, the metal hardly buckling.

 

“Detective, please refrain from-"

 

“How many times do I gotta say? Doesn’t fuckin' matter, tin can,” he spares the android a brief glance, hollow-eyed and clear exhaustion written across his dull expression, turning away.

 

RK900 seizes his arm tightly, and gently pivots him to face it, raising the clenched fist for inspection. The knuckles are bruised and reddened from the sheer force of the blow, a gash opened along the first joint.

 

“You are so careless,” RK900 murmurs. “Humans are not impervious to injury, you know that.”

 

Gavin sees the LED swinging a frantic tri-colour before settling on a steady, bright scarlet. He’s always noticed the colour change but never what it signifies, except now, he was a good idea what red indicates.

 

“I am sorry. I know this has been difficult for you,” it apologizes. “I know this wasn’t the outcome you were expecting.”

 

“Not your fault,” he grumbles. “We're back to square one.”

 

He already knows. Even if this case eats him alive, he'll damn well leave no stone unturned. He doesn’t let go of a case until it’s closed. It’s in his nature to never back down and keep fighting, even to the raw and bloody end.

 

RK900 lets go, a little hesitantly as though it expects him to do something reckless, but he’s too drained to bother; jingling with his keys to unlock the car door, he pauses to glance up at RK900. “What are you gonna do?”

 

“Review what evidence exists before recharging. I will attempt to have the most optimal set of information is currently available for us to build a fresh perspective from,” it answers.

 

“You aren't going partying with Tina?” he musters a joke.

 

“It is unnecessary and irrelevant to celebrate following a failure. I have no desire to accompany Officer Chen for consuming alcohol, nor is it possible for me to drink any,” RK900 answers. “I will be here at the station.”

 

For a moment, Gavin feels sorry for it. It doesn't know how to let loose and relax, and he is honestly surprised he can relate himself to that. It's just work and sleep, when he can find any. Maybe he's not so different from…

 

He stops himself from going any further with that train of thought. The hell’s wrong with him? They're _nothing_ alike.

 

Swinging open the car door, he starts to clamber in when RK900 tentatively proposes, “I would accompany you if you decided to go.”

 

Gavin hesitates. This is unexpected. He doesn’t _do_ unexpected. RK900 is waiting patiently, passive expression blank and emotionless, but if the faint furrow of brow is any indication, he would _almost_ chalk it up to the android being…

 

Nervous?

 

 _It's an android_ , he reasons. _They_ _don’t_ _feel_.

 

Slamming shut the driver's door shut, he drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, perpetually confused. RK900 is still waiting, LED a blinking amber.

 

If anything, he should just drive off and leave the electric boogaloo there in the parking lot. It shouldn’t make a difference, but something isn’t the same anymore, and Gavin doesn’t know what he should be thinking. He just _knows_ whatever was yesterday won’t be the same as tomorrow.

 

Exhaling heavily, Gavin clicks the seatbelt ejector and hoists himself over to the passenger side, motioning to the driver’s seat. The door creaks open in the cold, and RK900 slips gracefully into the seat, clipping the belt in place.

 

“I hope my company will not be the cause of any distress,” it says, accepting the proffered keys from Gavin’s extended hand to start the ignition.

 

He chuckles, switching on the heater to max. “Just don’t give me reason to regret this.”

 

“Understood.”

 

The serene blue glow spins peacefully in Gavin's peripheral vision.

 

It's good enough.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

“If there are so many automated cars, why would CyberLife make androids who can drive?” It’s not the strangest question he’s asked in his thirty-six years, but it gains a questionable glance from his driver.

 

“When CyberLife began manufacturing androids, they were made for every profession possible. Manually-driven vehicles were still being produced well into the company’s early years,” RK900 entertains his inquiry. “I have downloaded all necessary files on operating this vehicle in particular.”

 

“You know those self-driving cars aren’t safe, right?” Gavin adds, not at all reassured. “It’s like they all have a mind of their own. Not that driving was ever guaranteed safe. Do you know how many cases I’ve been on that have involved accidents?”

 

“Detective, my response time is significantly superior to yours. You will not come to harm,” RK900’s tiny smile is far from reassuring. “Where would you prefer to purchase coffee?”

 

“O'Mansley's,” he says, securing the belt in place and straightening up, a little happier at the mention of caffeine. The android is nearly pushing the speed limit in a downtown area, the engine loud as they drift from lane to lane, RK900 predetermining the route through the use of real time traffic conditions with preconstructions. Gavin's pulse steadies, and he adjusts his placement in the seat, trusting the android won’t see them in a pileup.

 

“A vehicular collision is the least of your worries. Some humans don't seem to realize their greatest threat is themselves,” RK900 states without removing its optics from the road, frowning. “In many sources of fiction, humans have depicted their own species as the cause of their own destruction, whether it be through global extinction following exhausted resources, or nuclear war. The tragedy of your species' own awareness is alarming, I must admit.”

 

The conversation had taken a turn down good old philosophy road, and Gavin is disturbingly reminded of his brother; luckily, they’ve reached O’Mansley’s and there are only a couple cars in line; he occupies himself with looking through the contents of his wallet instead of pursuing conversation, and as predicated, the android notices he’s fallen quiet.

 

“Detective? Is this topic of discussion a source of discomfort for you?” RK900 asks.

 

Silence will speak greater volumes and allow the android to possibly come to its own conclusion, so he gruffly says, “Nah, just heard Elijah talk about this shit a lot.”

 

“I understand,” the android nods, pulling up to the drive thru window to pay for and collect Gavin's extra-large expresso-saturated coffee. He takes a first piping-hot sip and sighs in contented delight. RK900’s LED is yellow for a few seconds, registering the human motion curiously.

 

“I cannot experience coffee as you do,” it begins tentatively. “Tell me what it's like.”

 

“Woodsy, warm. Bitter and potent. It's rocket fuel.”

 

“Sounds… unpleasant.”

 

He snorts. “You're probably a tea kind of guy.”

 

There's a long silence, one Gavin doesn't really notice, until RK900 tells him, “You referred to me as a person.”

 

It's awkward. Gavin doesn't know if apologizing is what he is expected to do in this situation. It's likely _RK900_ won't care - it's a robot and it isn’t supposed to care – but it's the mere fact _Gavin_ slipped and RK900 _noticed_ the slip.

 

“Can I ask you a question, Detective?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“In Captain Fowler’s office, you called me ‘T-900’.”

 

“What… did I offend you or something?”

 

“If I were human and capable of being offended, then yes, I believe I would be,” RK900 answers. “I have no desire to destroy or enslave humanity, nor was I created to. As I mentioned before, humanity's greatest downfall will be itself, provided your kind doesn't learn to evolve beyond its primitive barriers. Furthermore, Asimov's Laws dictate a machine is incapable of harming humans, or allow humanity to be harmed, therefore the artificial intelligence portrayed in the films was incorrect. The only remaining choice would have been to do nothing, as every other choice meant obliteration.”

 

The weight of this topic is much deeper than Gavin anticipated it would go, and a question strikes him suddenly. “But you’ve already broken those laws. In the drug den, you killed three of those men.”

 

RK900's LED flickers red. “The subject is convoluted, and there is no correct choice. I cannot ignore my programming, but I can bend its priorities based on each situation. In a decision where your life or the lives of many must be decided between… the answer is determined by a percentage, and I act based on the percentage.”

 

“So, you weigh lives based on a number?”

 

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I am incapable of weighing the value of human life by preference or attachment, as I am incapable of either.” Stopping on a red light, RK900 shifts in the driver’s seat to look at Gavin more fully. “I would not purposefully allow your life to be risked if I had a choice. Understand I was created to fulfill my predecessor's role. I am well aware of your previous hostility towards RK800. When Captain Fowler assigned me to you, I expected our working relationship to have negative results, considering I was designed to work alongside Lieutenant Anderson, who was far better acquainted with androids aside from superior experience in his career.”

 

“Like I said,” Gavin says blankly. “Second best.”

 

“On the contrary,” RK900 smiles its little smile, and this time, it seems to reach its eyes. “I have enjoyed my assignment to you as your partner, and I would hope you have found me tolerable in return, even if we did start off on the wrong foot.”

 

Gavin clears his throat roughly, masking the curve of his grin in a gulp of coffee. This fuckin' toaster… it's growing on him. “So… now that we're friends, what the hell am I supposed to call you?” he asks warily.

 

RK900 considers this as the stoplight switches green and they begin moving again. Gavin watches the little circle on its temple spin yellow for the longest time, contemplating the question seriously – more seriously than any android should.

 

“As I find your references to nefarious robots to be less than palatable, and I don't view myself as such,” it says, “I’d consider myself to be _more_ than an antagonist.”

 

Gavin laughs. “What? So, like… Reese?”

 

“If I should perish ensuring your survival, then I would assume I’ve completed the same mission the character took upon himself,” RK900 concludes strongly. “Wouldn't you agree?”

 

Gavin looks out the window at the blur of buildings and people, the grey skyline full of snow clouds, and the bright neon lights of a city trapped between the decrepit past and the bold, unfathomable future. The world is so very different than what he thought it would be as a boy, and he wonders how it came to this.

 

But it isn't as terrible as he feared it would be. It's just… strange. In an unbelievably weird way.

 

 

 

 

 

Plastic wheels roll across tile and Gavin pauses halfway to lifting his coffee to his mouth as he’s confronted with Tina’s slanted glare. “We need to talk, Gav. Like right this second.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he drinks his coffee purposefully to keep her waiting, places the cup down on the other side so she isn’t tempted to dump it on him if he decides to pull out some of the old sarcasm, and feigns a smile. “If this has anything to do with you shipping me with the tin can, I’m not interested. Now can I get back to work?”

 

“We’ve been friends for a long time, Gavin. A long time. So, don’t think I’m an idiot you can sneak this by,” the smug little smile is tugging at her lips. “I’ve seen you at your worst when it comes to crushes. How many nights did we stay up late on the phone talking about… ooh, what was his name? Dylan?”

 

“Shut up,” Gavin croaks, reaching for his coffee. Hell, he drinks too much coffee. No wonder he doesn’t sleep at night.

 

“He was a cutie pie, for sure. All dark locks and those baby blues, the perfect little freckles I’ve ever seen on a guy,” Tina prods his arm. “Only difference between him and Agent Hotness-900 was Dylan was sweet. Kind of reminded me of Connor-”

 

Groaning, Gavin shoves back from his desk. “What makes you think the toaster and I are a thing? Fuckin’ hell, Tina, give me a break.”

 

Her eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. “Nines hasn’t done a thing to you to deserve being sidelined.”

 

“It’s a _machine,_ Tina! It wouldn’t care if I chucked it in a meatgrinder or fucked the living daylights out of it,” Gavin grits out, barely keeping from raising his voice. “It. Is. Not. Real.”

 

“That’s why, then? Cause you’re afraid the one thing – the one person who gives a damn about your worthless ass – is plastic on the inside and isn’t capable of loving you?”

 

“I’m not _in love_ with a goddamn android. If you recall, I’m terrified of the thing.”

 

“But it isn’t _his_ fault,” Tina insists, leaning forward for emphasis. “Nines has been by your side, without objection, and is still there. He might be programmed to protect you, but what about the rest? Showing up at your apartment after the overdose? Or saving your ungrateful ass out of that frozen river?”

 

“It’s just that Asimov shit,” he grumbles. “Can’t hurt humans.”

 

She snorts in disbelief. “Is that really what you think? He was meant to be Anderson’s partner, remember? Don’t you think there’s… something more?”

 

Gavin stares at the coffee stain on the corner of his desk, the dimmed screen of a tablet listing deactivated androids, the Detroit Police Department logo in the center of the monitor, the stack of file folders listing every android-related crime. His gaze shifts further to Lieutenant Anderson’s vacant desk, decorated with the Detroit Tigers baseball cap hanging from the corner of one monitor, photograph decorated with scribbled messages from the old taskforce, match packets and the dying Japanese tree for flavour. The adjoining desk is empty, the surface clean, chair tucked in and lacking a nameplate.

 

Like Connor never existed in the first place.

 

“I think you’re blaming the wrong person here,” Tina says quietly.

 

“You’re right. I should pay Elijah a visit,” he chuckles. She doesn’t laugh, but instead tilts her head in consideration. “What? You don’t really think talking to that creep will make any difference?”

 

She shrugs. “I don’t know, Gav, but that’s the best idea I’ve heard out of you all morning.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Will Elijah Kamski be able to provide us with any relevant information?” RK900 queries as Gavin presses his thumb into the doorbell, the ring chiming through the ultra-modern mausoleum his half-brother calls his home. Gavin shrugs in response, tucking his hands in his pockets to keep warm as they wait.

 

“Detective, unless you intend to initiate in civil conversation with your relative – which could easily be accomplished via telephone communication – I do not see-"

 

“Shut up for a moment, would you? Damn, you're like a dog with a bone,” Gavin snipes, burrowing deeper into his coat in a futile effort to keep warm. The wind whipping off the water is frigid.

 

“And you, Detective, are flogging a dead horse,” RK900 retaliates calmly, though its grey-blue eyes are narrowed at the back of its partner's neck.

 

The door opens presently and the sweet face of an ST200 android greets them with a wide smile. “Gavin! Elijah didn't tell me you were coming to visit. You should have told us beforehand.”

 

“I was in the neighborhood,” Gavin covers up apologetically. He always feels so awkward around the Chloe bots; from the beginning, they seemed different than the rest of the models produced – aside from the fact they were based off a real _living_ girl he'd once known. “Is Elijah home?”

 

“Always. He's in the workshop repairing one of my sisters,” she holds the door open wider. “Please come in, and make yourself at home.”

 

Truth be told, Gavin could _never_ feel at home in the monochromatic den where his sibling designs his beloved murder cyborgs; the frigid air outside is much nicer, thank you very much, but RK900 is herding him in from behind and the Chloe is guiding them to the elevator leading into the basement. It's a short trip down, the experience punctuated by the grating classical music playing around the house. Gavin shuffles from foot to foot, checking the time on his phone, and sniffling as his nose adjusts from cold air to the warmth of indoors.

 

Then, in a gentlemanly manner he didn’t ever expect from his partner, RK900 silently hands him an _honest to god linen handkerchief_ , printed with the CyberLife logo in the corner of the white square.

 

It's awkward until he accepts it, gingerly dabbing the condensation gathering, and notices the fabric is scented. It's distractingly familiar but he doesn't have time to puzzle out what smell it is when the elevator door sings open, and the Chloe android leads them down a narrow hall, and the workshop comes into view.

 

Six large glass panels reveal the uneven black stone walls and pristine white inserts of the workshop, more of a lair of anything. It's brightly lit, the florescent glow illuminating everything visible, from the massive monitors displaying string code in bright blue text, to the assembling machine dead center in the room with a half-built prototype, wires dangling and a single limb in place, the black and blue plastic protecting mesh-embryo biocomponents inside a dark, dead corpse. On the far end of the room, wearing a plain black t-shirt and glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he precariously solders inside the open chassis of an ST200 android, is Elijah.

 

“Elijah, you have visitors,” Chloe announces. Elijah glances over his shoulder casually, indifference written across his face, but brightens immediately as he recognizes Gavin and RK900. Setting aside the soldering iron, he wipes his hands clean on his jeans and leaves his work to greet them.

 

“Dear brother, it is ill advised to be swimming in minus thirty weather. You'll catch your death,” Elijah scolds. “I knew from the time we were young I was the sensible child, but never did I believe your recklessness would develop into suicidal ideation.”

 

“I wasn’t _trying_ to-”

 

“Just as the overdose was a mistake?” Elijah clicks his tongue in distaste. “I wasn’t expecting you to visit.”

 

“I… wait a second. How the fuck do you know about that?” Gavin retaliates. “Are you monitoring me or something?”

 

“Hardly. Police work bores me out of my skull,” he responds; his back is turned, hiding his face and any possible gauge of truth. “You came to ask something, so ask instead of bothering me with incessant queries. Clearly, this is more than a friendly social call. I'll have you come upstairs to the lounge, where we will be more comfortable.”

 

Elijah begins to lead the way from the workshop, but Gavin holds up a hand to halt his progress.

 

“Here’s fine. What do you know about the AX400s?” Gavin asks, gets straight to the point. It clearly isn’t what Elijah expected to hear.

 

“CyberLife released them nearly six or seven years ago. They were designed for household use – laundry, child rearing, shopping, you name it. They were given a maternal, obedient nature,” Elijah answers. “Good for families with children. Why?”

 

Gavin jots down a few bullets on his notepad. Textbook responses, but more than silence. “Right. How many would you estimate went deviant in the fall?”

 

“Hundreds, easily. They were popular until the release of the AP700s.”

 

“Is there any way you can help us find this one we’re after?” RK900 raises a hand, palm out, holographic photograph captured from RK900’s optics glimmering there.

 

“I don’t have tracking equipment here – I design personal projects and upkeep the ST200s on site. You’d have to inquire at headquarters about locating a specific android,” Elijah shrugs, gazing at the picture. “Remarkable. The fire in those eyes – it fascinates me as these androids were subservient by nature. Seeing one break free into one’s own, and become-"

 

“Human,” RK900 murmurs unexpectedly, to Gavin’s surprise.

 

“Interesting…” The corner of Elijah’s mouth twitches, too quick to be sure. “I wish I could have done more to help. Good luck with the rest of the case.”

 

“Yeah, I think we have a lead,” Gavin nods. “We'll have to verify it… the usual shit, you know.”

 

“Hmm. If that's everything, Chloe will escort you out-"

 

Interrupting the dismissal, Gavin points to the unfinished android hanging in the assembling machine. “New project?”

 

“A prototype. An old idea I’ve been working on for the past decade,” waving the approaching ST200 away, Elijah skirts his invention like a shark, but his gaze is inquisitive and tender, like a proud parent. It's slightly jarring to see so much fascinated affection in a man Gavin's forever known as unattached and distant.

 

“S'got a name?”

 

“It's too early for titles, unlike your shadow here,” Elijah casually gestures in RK900's direction. “I could name it after you. GV…”

 

“Uh, hell no. Don't even think about it,” Gavin says firmly. He doesn't want some robot named after him. “I don't need another two hundred of me roaming around Detroit. Having a half-twin is bad enough.”

 

“We hardly resemble one another,” Elijah smirks, then glances at RK900. “Has my brother been generous enough to offer you a name?”

 

“We’re working on that,” Gavin cuts in quickly before the android can even open its mouth. RK900 looks down at the floor, the illusion of disappointment seared into the frowning curve of its lips.

 

Elijah frowns. “A corpse on an autopsy table is a John Doe until you finally recover an identity. Are you suggesting a rotting sack of flesh deserves a name when all its remaining purpose is to be six feet under?”

 

“It's because that _corpse_ was a _person_.” And here he is, arguing philosophy. “And android isn't a person. It isn’t _alive_.”

 

“I'm disappointed. Even after working so closely with one, you continue to harbour such dislike for my creations?” Elijah shakes his head, and the accusation comes as a sting.

 

“How am I the bad guy here? _You_ created the bastards that have done nothing but disrupt employment for Detroit – and the rest of the States, for that matter. If anyone is responsible, I’m looking straight at him,” Gavin snaps irritably. “We’re paying the price for your fame and fortune. If you thought I ever had any intention of accepting your tin cans, you're fuckin' wrong.”

 

“There is no guarantee employment would’ve remained stable. This is Detroit, Gavin. Let’s not kid ourselves. You can't blame my androids for-"

 

“The _hell_ I can't.”

 

“Androids and artificial intelligence were inevitable,” Elijah attempts to reason. “My success, androids developing beyond the point of their intended use… all inevitable. As with the steam engine, progress cannot be denied, and again our species learns to adapt. Evolution determines as such, Gavin. It's how it is.”

 

Gavin hears the crunch of paper and looks down at his notepad crumpled in his fist. He unfolds it and stuffs it away in his pocket, and drags his fingers through his hair. “Let's go, tin can. We have what we need.”

 

The ST200 is patiently standing outside the workshop, ready to escort them out, and they've nearly reached the elevator when Elijah calls after them: “The next time you plan to visit, call beforehand.”

 

The elevator doors seal shut, but it's not until Gavin's started the of his car and pulled out of the driveway that he finally feels his muscles uncoil from being wound so tightly.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter early due to scheduling conflicts. It's a bit shorter than previous chapters (sorry) when I cut the chapters down from the mish-mash of scenes I originally wrote out. Chapters will resume their semi(?) regular posting on Fridays next week! Thanks for reading this far along, everyone!

RK900’s processor is arguably the most powerful of the current generation in technology, outperforming most CPUs in existence. Since its partnership to Detective Reed in November, it has dedicated a portion to monitoring his vitals, so it notices when the detective's bpm drops to a steady fifty, and peers around the terminal to find his head rested on folded arms, fast asleep.

 

It could be endearing, if the android were capable of feeling endearment.

 

RK900 resumes running a set of updates and cross-referencing android models, and sets these processes to the background as it rises and fluidly moves around the desks. Gavin doesn't stir, even as RK900 crouches stealthily beside him. The detective's fingers twitch, eye moving beneath the lid, and RK900 cocks its head curiously.

 

It wonders at what it is to dream, to experience a lucid hallucination formed by vague memory and experience filtered through the imagination of the human brain. The scientific explanation is readily available in a pop-up window displaying the instant internet search in the top left corner of its optic display, but RK900 dismisses it, watching its human partner slip further and further from consciousness into the deep, mesmerizing abyss of a world the android will never know. It's… envious.

 

The android recalls its argument with Detective Reed on the return venture back to the station, when RK900 attempted to point out its partner’s flaws – letting his emotions get the better of him, for one.

 

_“I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” Detective Reed mutters._

_“Allowing personal matters to interfere in your job is only a detriment to your career, Detective Reed. This causes your underperformance to be your own fault.”_

_The detective's face turns bone white, and his knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. RK900 reflects on the danger of angering its partner while he is driving a manual vehicle, but it's too late._

_“Not my fault I was born human,” he grits out icily._

_“But you chose to be a police officer. You are human, and not without your flaws-"_

_“You're starting to really piss me off,” he warns._

_“I cannot have half of what you take for granted,” RK900 continues softly. Detective Reed glances its way, brows knit together tightly in disbelief._

_“Really? You envy_ me _, of all people?”_

_RK900 sees the warnings flashing across its optic display but ignores them, for once understanding why it can be better to keep one's mouth shut. It’s gone too far, said too much. As its partner would say: Fuck._

_Noting the android’s uncharacteristic silence, the detective continues, a little kinder, “There's nothing about me to be envious of, trust me. The only reason a fuckup like me is still a detective in the first place is cause I’ve done things the hard way; taken the short end of the stick and spent more time groveling than actually climbing rank.”_

_“I would not lie to you,” RK900 murmurs._

_The muted sigh beside it indicates acknowledgement but Detective Reed doesn't pursue conversation, or speak at all. The rest of the drive is painfully quiet, and RK900 watches the streets flash by outside the window, the red ring of light turning endlessly in its reflection._

At the station, RK900 sought out Officer Chen to consult over the issue. She listened raptly, a sincere smile of sympathy appearing now and then. RK900 asked her if, knowing Detective Reed better than it, if it had truly upset its partner.

 

_“Hon, if he was really angry with you, there'd be a bullet between your eyes,” she reaches out to tap the android on the center of its chest. “You got to him on a level most people don’t. He doesn't let his guard down for anyone.”_

_“Then why did he not believe me?”_

_“I think he wasn’t expecting someone as perfect as you to tell him that,” she chuckles. “God, he's got it bad for you.”_

_“Detective Reed has not shown any romantic interest-" RK900 cuts itself off as an error pops up on screen. It realizes it just denied a proven fact. It lied._

_Officer Chen doesn't point out its blunder, but her smile becomes enigmatic. “Keep an eye on him, okay? He's going through a lot and needs someone to look after him, even if he won't admit it.”_

That's what RK900 assures itself it's doing – watching out for the detective, not indulging in its fascination of studying the oblivious human with intense curiosity. It absorbs the smallest details about him; the scar across the bridge of his nose, the faint curl to the thicker sections of hair growing in; the five o'clock shadow and whether it would feel scratchy under the android's fingertips; those chapped lips flushed pale pink with hot blood, parted slightly as he breathes. RK900 can't tear its eyes away, wondering and riveted and longing to experience sleep in the way Detective Reed does, to dream in calm abandon and slumber among memories of what is and what could be. It wants to know what _he_ is dreaming of, why it makes his fingers twitch and eyelids flicker.

 

The chill against the inside of RK900's palm draws its attention from Reed's face to the exposed white plastic of its hand. It quickly pulls it back into place, and straightens from its crouch, confused by its action.

 

Androids typically share information or connect memories via interfacing, an action performed through touch. It is an intimate gesture, inherently seen exclusively among androids. The attempt to interface with Detective Reed leaves RK900 with several questions, all illogical, and immediately dismisses the pop ups blinking across its optics, all highlighted with a white exclamation point.

 

Bringing its background processes to full attention, RK900 resumes cross-referencing android models in the past two years, firmly focusing on its tasks and not the ridiculous queries clogging up its processors.

 

It is unnecessary, and RK900 is far too valuable to be worrying about unnecessary things.

 

_It shouldn’t._

A half hour passes and RK900 is finding no relevant information in its work. Pushing away from the desk, it paces through the station, until it finds it has wandered down to the tech lab.

 

Dr. Gallagher is bent over a severely disfigured android laid out on a steel operating surface, the exposed ports in its single existing wrist is connected to tubes pumping Thirium into the wreckage of a body. Both legs are gone at the thigh, one arm is a strip of plastic and crushed wires and every biocomponent is exposed under a milky, clouded shell. It no longer looks humanoid, except for the disfigured face, angled RK900's way as it enters the lab.

 

“Hello, Dr. Gallagher.”

 

“Ah, glad to see Reed hasn't unloaded a clip on you yet. How's our favourite asshole doing up there?” Gallagher greets with a cheeky wink. “I see you’ve been busy rattling cages and getting your hands dirty. Need any upgrades, hon, you just let mama know.”

 

“I will keep your offer in mind,” RK900 drifts to the monitor, displaying a grainy red image of a freeway at an awkward angle, stuck in a loop of an automated transport seconds before impact.

 

“Our poor friend here was found on the Fisher Freeway. It looked like he jumped off the Westward Avenue bridge going over the lanes,” she informs, dedicating maneuvering her soldering iron to fuse a bit of metal together. “I’ve been trying to repair his memory core but the image is stuck on the same loop. I was hoping to see what caused him to jump.”

 

“Humans are fatalistic. Perhaps in finding its humanity, this android found its newfound life to be a disappointment,” RK900 suggests.

 

Gallagher pauses to peer up at the android. “That's an awful way of looking at things, pal. I didn't take you to be a pessimist.”

 

“My predecessor was designed to convey optimism. I, on the other hand, are neither an optimist or a pessimist. I am simply stating a fact, based on what I have learned.”

 

“Well, your time with Reed has certainly proved beneficial,” she says with no small amount of sarcasm. “Hey, why don't you make yourself useful and see if you can reactivate this one for me?”

 

Deactivating the skin on its hand, RK900 gingerly grasps the android's wrist and reaches out for its weak signal. It doesn't seem to be responding, so it tries a new approach, instead probing its memory.

 

Nothing, nothing but empty feedback and an incomprehensible static blur. “I’m afraid there’s nothing useful here, Doctor.”

 

Gallagher sighs, swinging out the chair at her desk to sit and opening a document on her terminal. “Well, it was worth a try. I’ll keep working away on him. Thanks, RK.”

 

Before leaving, RK900 broaches a question forming at the forefront of its processor: “Why was the android on the freeway? Why would it choose to place itself in harm’s way?”

 

Dr. Gallagher glances up from working at her terminal. “Odd. You rule out every other scenario and assume it chose to self-destruct. It could’ve been there for any reason but you chose that,” she tilts her head curiously. “Why?”

 

“I do not know, Doctor,” RK900 answers truthfully.

 

“You’ve changed, you know,” she points out. “Same as Reed. The two of you have changed each other.”

 

“Is it wrong?” it inquires.

 

Gallagher chuckles. “That’s the thing, RK900. The beauty of life is not knowing what’s right or wrong, but finding out on your own. It’s called having a moral code.”

 

“You fail to understand my purpose. I was not designed to have morals.”

 

“Were you?” she challenges.

 

“I am a machine; morals would only cause to impede my function, and deliver results CyberLife would deem unacceptable. Change is inevitable, as I have developed beyond my initial programming to perform at optimal capacity for investigative work.”

 

“And spending so much time with Reed is surely beneficial,” she points out, a faint smile curling her lip.

 

“I do not understand.”

 

“I was right about you,” she rises from the desk, moving closer to the android. “Let me ask you something: You’re built to achieve a simulated personality and aspire to function based on your assigned role, right?”

 

“Correct,” RK900 nods. “My integration function, though of lesser requirement than that of my predecessor, is a teaching mechanism to adjust how I am perceived for the greatest possible results.”

 

“And exposure to certain people helps shape you into your best person,” she continues.

 

“Yes. I weigh the advantages and disadvantages of human behaviour and characteristics to achieve a personality most will find satisfactory.”

 

“Reed certainly likes you,” Dr. Gallagher grins broadly.

 

“As you stated previously, Detective Reed and I do spend a large quantity of time working together, but this is expected as we are partners,” RK900 aims for the correct, logical answer to the doctor’s double-edged statement.

 

“If you were reassigned a new partner, would you still spend time with Reed?” she queries.

 

“It would serve highly unbeneficial.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

RK900 adjusts its weight, pausing as it considers an answer. “I was originally intended to work with Lieutenant Anderson. Should he, as an example, return to work tomorrow, my partnership to Detective Reed would be terminated and the case would continue with Anderson. An officer of greater experience would be suitable to achieving better chances at succeeding on the case where Reed’s inexperience fails him.”

 

“Gavin’s been a detective for years now. He’s ambitious.”

 

“His ambition has done nothing but let him down. He’s intelligent and dedicated, but a lack of restraint on his emotions causes his ruthless approach to impede his ability to perform at the capability he could easily reach.” Again, it remains truthful, its report supported by fact. Its opinion could be considered cold, but where’s the point in providing a dishonest declaration?

 

“So, without emotion, he’d be a better partner,” Gallagher echoes. “Is that what you’re saying?”

 

“I have no understanding of emotions as I cannot experience them myself,” RK900’s optics focus on the small intricacies of its conversation partner’s face, puzzling her out, the motion causing its eyes to narrow in a suspicious manner. “Dr. Gallagher, may I inquire as to why you are investigating my partnership to Detective Reed?”

 

“Androids fascinate me. Amuse an old woman, why don’t you?” she counters breezily.

 

“Considering you are six years from-”

 

She bats his arm lightly, pulling a face. “Shh, don’t remind me. But back to what I was saying… if it were the other way around – that you had feelings and Reed didn’t – would you want him to remain your partner?”

 

Again, she cycles back to this point in their conversation. RK900 doesn’t understand what she hopes it will provide, and decides instead of repeating its previous words, to fabricate another answer that will hopefully please Dr. Gallagher’s search for the unknown. “I have failed to find any reason to dismiss Detective Reed as my partner. Working with him has been amicable as of recently, as opposed to when I was first assigned to him. However, I am unable to develop any sort of attachment to him.”

 

Processing its words, she raises a brow, folding her arms across her chest. RK900 realizes she isn’t satisfied with anything it’s told her, and plays back their conversation, cross-referencing portions to other conversations it has held with different officers in the department. It calls back to when it spoke with Officer Chen earlier.

 

“Dr. Gallagher, I believe I understand what you are attempting to do, and I must disappoint you. I have stated innumerable times I am a machine, nothing more. I am unable to experience emotion or connection. I am not alive, and never will be,” RK900 states firmly. “In regards to your field of operation, I understand you will not question me further.”

 

Dr. Gallagher nods slowly, and it believes she is disengaging from their conversation, when she adds, very quietly, “That’s new, isn’t it? I bet you’re seeing the notifications right now.”

 

RK900’s LED dials bright yellow, and it breaks eye contact with her, clearing the notification messages with the barest flutter of command. Dr. Gallagher resumes working at her terminal, fingers flying over the keyboard, the keys glowing as she dashes over them with her login information.

 

“I have to return to work. See yourself out,” she smiles, nothing but kindness radiating from her fair features, then adds, “I’m good at keeping secrets, RK900. You can trust me.”

 

RK900 isn’t sure it should, but leaves without another word regardless, wondering _what_ Dr. Gallagher was looking for why it would be relevant.

 

On its return journey to regroup with Detective Reed, Officer Miller’s frightened voice is heard calling over the radio system, and every officer in the station bursts to life:

 

_“…down! Patrol unit 975, this is Officer Miller requesting immediate emergency services. I got a 10-13 in alley east of Capitol Park off West Grand River Avenue. Assailant fleeing on foot due north. Black male, six foot five, wearing grey jacket and light shirt, possibly armed. I repeat, my partner is down!”_

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Gavin breaks all of the speeding limits on the drive to the hospital.

 

By the time they arrive, Tina is already in surgery, and not a single goddamn nurse can tell him if she’s going to pull through. RK900 has to restrain him at one point, guiding him to the seats in the waiting room; two hours and thirty-eight minutes later, they’re still there, alternating between pacing the room or sitting. The clock on the wall is on the last legs of its batteries, and Gavin only knows how long it’s really been by asking the android.

 

Into the third hour, Gavin leaves his chair to stand shoulder to shoulder with RK900, who has been gazing out the window since the near beginning of arriving. It’s around five-thirty in the afternoon, and the days are staying brighter longer, now that winter has passed and spring is edging nearer. The android doesn’t acknowledge his presence; its eyelids are shut, the ring of light ebbing a slow deep blue he’s never seen.

 

“Hey, you still with me?” he whispers to it.

 

“I never left,” it responds, eyes remaining closed, but its LED fires a brighter cobalt. “I am calibrating my gyroscope. Did you require something of me, Detective?”

 

“I just wanted…” he falters, uncertain. “Do you really envy all this? It’s not really anything special, being human. It’s kind of shitty, actually.”

 

“I am a machine, Detective, but I was also designed to learn. The human brain’s capacity is a fascinating concept to me,” RK900 answers solemnly. “Unwrapping the mysteries of your species could only be done if I _were_ one of your kind, but as I am an android, I will never experience life as you do. And so, _you_ serve as the conduit for my development.”

 

Gavin can’t help but laugh, despite himself. “I really thought you would’ve said we’re illogical for having feelings, not… that.”

 

“But you are illogical; it is in your nature,” RK900 glances down at him. “When I was assigned to you in November, I should’ve felt disappointment for not being partnered with Lieutenant Anderson; when you attempted to rescue me from the warehouse after Fernandez detonated the explosives, I should’ve felt gratitude for your selflessness; when I pulled you out of the river to save you from drowning, I should’ve felt anger and spite at your reckless behaviour, and disappointment in my own self for failing the objective. But I did not _feel_ any of these emotions because I am not human.”

 

Gavin holds its gaze. “Do you wanna be?”

 

The android falls quiet, eyebrows drawing together. Before it can answer, the ward doors swing open and a nurse calls for Gavin; he goes to her immediately, frantic questions flying from his lips, and RK900 watches from the window.

 

RK900 cannot experience emotion. It can simulate joy and pain, irritation and rage. It can _pretend_ to feel, but truthfully, it feels nothing. It is a machine, built of plastic and metal, lights and wires. It lacks what makes humans so captivatingly flawed, therefore it isn’t human, and never can be. It remains impassive, a silent listener, unable to offer a word of condolence or provide comfort. It doesn’t know how.

 

It doesn’t know how to assure Detective Reed the likelihood Officer Chen will survive. It lacks the information and cannot even provide a theory; neither of them has any clue of what transpired in the alley; why she was alone with her assailant; the extent of her injuries.

 

It cannot help its partner, and for that, it registers as equally as failure.

 

The nurse departs, and it sees the distraught expression draining the colour from his face, and RK900 barely preconstructs the situation to move in time to prevent its partner from collapsing to the polished tile floor, grasping his shoulders to hold him upright.

 

“Detective, are you alright?” RK900 angles its head to see its partner’s face. He’s blanched, a faraway look in his haunted grey eyes. It takes a moment for him to respond, and it’s little more than a hoarse whisper.

 

“…a coma. She’s in a coma… they don’t think she’s gonna… gonna… _oh, f-fuck_.”

 

Registering the pressure of Detective Reed’s fingers tightening into the fabric of its jacket’s sleeves as he clings to the android, a damp sensation stains the front of its shirt as the human ducks his head to hide his tears, a hitching sob cutting off his voice.

 

Abruptly, its systems stall, the sound of shattering glass ringing within its audio processors as cracks break the surface of the red wall guarding its programming.

 

**_Software Instability ^_ **

 

No, RK900 cannot experience emotion, and doesn’t think it would want to.

 

 

 

 

 

Glasses clink together on wooden tables with steel cutlery and ceramic plates, the low drone of music on the bar’s ancient record player crooning sweet melodies in the corner, the large television hung on the wall tuned to basketball highlights. A pair of teenagers are sharing a Styrofoam basket of fries drenched in ketchup, making googly eyes at one another. The rest of the patrons are tucked away, drinking quietly or gazing out the windows, the reflection of the “OPEN” neon sign glimmering distortedly between the raindrops dribbling down the glass.

 

Gavin is propped up against the bar counter with a beer, brain swimming pleasantly in alcohol. A small ashtray plumes a thin line of smoke from a stubbed-out cigarette. He can’t remember how many beers he’s had, or how long he’s been there – in fact, he can’t remember much, and for the moment that’s what he wants. He keeps getting surreptitious glances from a Latino girl at the other end of the counter, a neat whiskey between her glossy indigo fingernails, her smiles peeking out from the curtain of sleek black hair falling over the curve of her shoulder. He hasn’t decided yet if he wants to ask her back to his place or not.

 

Actually, he hasn’t even decided on what comes after drinking himself numb at the nearest bar outside the hospital at four-thirty in the morning, or _how_ he intends to make it home, as his eye catches sight of the dark green Mustang’s hood bouncing with neon-lit raindrops. The pale sleeve and glowing armband of the android is visible, even from the counter, and Gavin checks his watch. He _did_ say he’d be back in a minute – it’s been a generous seventy-four since he slammed the door shut and barked at the android to wait.

 

Swallowing the last of his beer, Gavin slides inelegantly over to the Latino. She shifts to face him fully, dark eyes heavy lidded and questioning, and her lips twist up a little. “Someone’s past their limit,” she tells him, lifting her hand to run a ticklish finger down the front of his chest.

 

“I can handle a few.”

 

She laughs, the sound low and just on the right side of toying. “I was counting, babe. You’re gonna have one hell of a hangover in the morning.”

 

“Maybe you’ll be there to make it better?” It’s a weak pick-up line, and if he were sober, he’d kick his own ass for sounding like such a jerk, but right now it’s the best he can do. Her pitying look says it all, and he’s two seconds away from dropping a few bills on the counter and flopping drunkenly outside before he makes himself out to be even more of a loser.

 

Gavin doesn’t anticipate the rough hand yanking him around. A fist snatches up the front of his jacket and yanks him forward under the nose of a six-foot-two, high-heeled, platinum-blonde woman. Gavin registers the smell of perfume and the supple richness of her grey leather jacket, and the glint of raw jealousy burning in her thickly-lashed eyes, before she shoves the small of his spine into the counter. “She’s mine, jackass. She isn’t interested.”

 

The woman drops him with a disgusted grunt, and slides past to gather her partner, and they march for the bar door together. Gavin swaggers forward an uneven step and he wobbles, catching the edge of the counter before he can fall. “Maybe you should teach her to behave in public,” Gavin calls after them.

 

Distantly, Gavin hears the Latino girl disagreeing about something, and blearily sees the platinum-haired woman striding across the bar back toward him with a filthy, murderous glare. There’s a flash of white outside the premise’s windows.

 

“Either you apologize, or I call the police on grounds of harassment,” she growls.

 

“Hey, man.” A stranger in one of the booths with a couple of friends, all wearing t-shirts exposing the solid muscle in their arms, wagers for Gavin’s attention. “Leave the ladies alone, okay? You need to settle down.”

 

“Mind your own fuckin’ business,” Gavin snaps. Offended, the man heaves away from his booth, and his friends are as equally tense.

 

“Look, we’re all here to solve our own problems,” he says, hands partly raised in a peaceful manner. “I get it – you’ve had a rough night – but don’t come here causing trouble for others.”

 

Bristling, Gavin turns his attention to the men, advancing forward a step. “I said to mind your own _fuckin’_ business!” His head is spinning and the edges of his vision are darkening. Unable to contain himself, he shoves the man backward into his friend, and the entire table explodes from offended to enraged.

 

The first punch connects with the corner of his mouth and his face explodes in pain, the metallic tang of blood flooding across his tongue. A blow to his stomach, then the side of his head, sends him reeling. He slips and feels his knee crunch on the wet tile floor, then he’s hoisted upright and he sees the fist flying a second before it smashes across his nose. Something hot and wet smears across his upper lip, and his hand comes away liberally soaked with blood.

 

A spike of rage-fueled adrenaline brings his fist up and he lands a heavy blow across his assailant’s jaw. He swings again, black fury all that’s left to keep him burning, and hits again and again until he's being dragged to the floor and feels a boot kick him in the stomach. It _hurts_ and he unintentionally lets out a cry, curling inwards to protect himself. Blood and saliva trickle from his mouth down his chin, the scrape of dirty tiles rasping on his cheek.

 

Somewhere, deep in his foggy subconsciousness, he knows he _damn_ _well_ deserves this, and his treacherous brain lets it happen.

 

He’s hauled up off the floor and he expects a fist to strike him in the gut or the jaw, but instead he’s being dragged through the bar to the cold rain outside, a protective arm curled tight around his back. It’s coming down harder now in hissing rivulets, and his head is tipped back forcefully, letting the water splash across his bloodied, aching face. He slaps weakly, jerking aside dizzily, and RK900’s scowling glare bores down on him.

“Detective Reed, I will escort you to the hospital for medical attention. You have suffered a mild concussion and-”

 

“M’not going… fuckin’ hospital,” Gavin slurs, spitting a globule of bloody spit into the gutter. He thinks a tooth has been loosened, and prods at it experimentally with his tongue. “M’going home.”

 

“Perhaps you should’ve considered _that_ your destination tonight,” RK900 reprimands icily, manhandling Gavin against his protests to the passenger seat and shoving him in. “You will be charged with multiple instances of harassment and battery. I will have to ask you to please refrain from instigating more trouble.”

 

The car door slams shut, the bang crashing through his aching head, and RK900 enters the vehicle and starts the engine, driving across town in perfect silence. Gavin hunkers down in the seat, nose and lip running freely but the stream is slow. He could do with some painkillers and a week without opening his eyes again.

 

He watches the ring of light on the android’s temple remain yellow for the entire car trip. “Are you reporting it to Fowler?”

 

“I’m modifying the events to give you a chance at avoiding possible jailtime. If the other participants come forward, my modifications will be discovered and both of us will experience severe consequences,” RK900 answers grimly. “I will be deactivated and returned for disassembly to CyberLife’s main facility, and you could lose your job. Detective, I suggest you _do not_ behave in such a manner ever again.”

 

That gets his attention. “You’re covering up for me? Why?”

 

The android gives him a long sidelong glance. “You are my partner. I would expect you to do the same for another colleague.”

 

“No, don’t. I have enough of a record for you to go messing with what happened back there,” Gavin complains, struggling to sit upright. He winces, muscles in his torso throbbing. “Just leave it…”

 

“I have already sent a modified report back to Captain Fowler for review in the morning.”

 

“ _Fuck_ , c’mon.” Gavin bemoans. “Why the hell-”

 

Pulling into the lot outside the apartments, RK900 exits the car, coming around to Gavin’s side. Tilting its head down, it offers a hand and a small frown. Ignoring it, he clambers to his feet and crosses to the main doors, escaping the pissing skies and taking the stairs wearily. It’s warm and dry inside. The android is a quiet ghost behind him, keeping a steady pace, and takes Gavin’s keys when he takes too long unlocking the door.

 

Easing out of his coat, Gavin sinks down on the couch with an exhausted, agonized groan. He feels like his head is either going to split open or implode. A tap to his shoulder has him find a glass of water and a painkiller hovering in front of his nose. He takes them, gulping the pill, and RK900 takes him beneath the elbow and guides him – albeit carefully – to the bathroom.

 

“Remove your shirt and sit down,” the android orders, pointing at the closed toilet lid. Gavin does, happy just to be off his feet, and bites his already-wounded lip as he tugs the shirt up over his head. RK900 bends to survey the damage; its cool breath raises goosebumps on Gavin’s skin, and his face feels warm.

 

“Humans are so fragile,” the android comments blandly, straightening to dig through the cupboard above the sink, setting rolled gauze and a plastic container on the granite. “Where is your household emergency kit located?”

 

“Don’t have one,” Gavin says. “Whatever’s in there will have to do.”

 

“The lack of adequate medical supplies-”

 

“I’m not a fuckin’ drugstore, okay?”

 

RK900 gives him a sharp look. Dampening a cloth from the cupboard, it tips Gavin’s head back and starts cleaning the blood from his face. Soaking a bit of gauze in isopropyl alcohol, it swabs a shallow gash on his temple, and Gavin promptly recoils, sucking in air between his teeth.

 

“Remain still, Detective. If I neglect to sterilize the cuts, they could become infected.”

 

“Just be careful, got it?” Gavin warns, leaning forward again for the android to continue. Its touch is ginger, cold fingers tilting his head from side to side as it works. Applying gauze and medical tape over the smaller injuries, it unpacks the needle and thread from the kit. “What are you doing with that?” he asks warily.

 

“You require stitches,” it says, matter-of-factly. “Do you allow me permission to proceed?”

 

“Where…?”

 

RK900 brushes its thumb below his temple, just beneath the gash. “Will you trust me?”

 

 _I’m not going to hurt you_. A long time ago, it had promised him that, and it hadn’t yet broken its vow. Still, stitching skin without some form of anesthetic will hurt like a bitch, though Gavin’s suffered worse.

 

But trust the tin can? That’s a whole other case.

 

“How bad will it be if you don’t?”

 

“It will scar. It will be far more noticeable unless you allow me to stitch it cleanly,” RK900 smiles faintly. “Though you are no stranger to superficial markings.” It’s referencing the scar across his nose; Gavin always assumed it gifted him a rougher appeal, and it generally raised a lot of questions from strangers and coworkers. He isn’t sure if he wants the android – or anyone, for that matter – jabbing him with a needle.

 

RK900’s question yet lingers, and instead of providing a definitive answer, Gavin sighs complacently, “Just make it quick, okay?”

 

The android’s diode blinks amber once before steadying to a softer azure, and it deftly hooks the thread through the needle’s eye. Tilting Gavin’s head to the side for better accessibility, he feels the stinging burn of the stainless-steel tip pierce his skin and the dragging sensation of the thread binding the gash sealed. He won’t lie – it fuckin’ hurts, in the way a tattoo in an especially sensitive spot might – and bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to not break the skin, but divert the source of pain.

 

“Are you alright, Detective?”

 

He snorts in derisive amusement. “Unlike you, I feel everything you’re doing right now.”

 

“You misunderstood my inquiry,” RK900 pauses in its work. “I meant to ask whether or not you will allow me to continue.”

 

“Yeah, m’fine. I got a pretty good threshold for- _ow, what the fuck, tin can?!”_ RK900 withdraws the tip of the needle from the tiny puncture in the back of Gavin’s hand, and a small bead of blood wells up, trickling across the skin. Before Gavin can say another word, the android kneels and gathers his wrist to…

 

The cool sensation of RK900’s tongue drags over Gavin’s hand, distinctly slippery and smooth in comparison to a human’s; if the texture wasn’t different enough, the fact the android’s mouth is cold as ice sends Gavin’s stomach dipping between his toes at the eerie abnormality.

 

“Your blood type is O-negative,” RK900 comments, rising to its feet and resuming stitching the head wound. 

 

“Was that part of your medical diagnosis or somethin’, or are you a fuckin’ vampire now?” Gavin retorts. The android _actually_ smirks, and he almost expects to see the curl of pearly fangs protrude from behind the pale strip of its lips. To be honest, he doesn’t think he’d be surprised.

 

Tying off the thread neatly and gently cleaning up the excess blood from around the tightly-bound gash, RK900 announces it’s finished and sends him off to bed with another painkiller.

 

“What will you do?’ Gavin asks though he really doesn’t care. He’s almost asleep on his feet, body sore and desperate to lie down. Someone is still banging pots and pans together in his ears.

 

“I will remain in your living quarters unless you have need of me,” RK900 tells him, gesturing vaguely in direction of the couch. “Detective Reed, if I may…?”

 

“What?”

 

“I may not be human, but I believe I understand that the injury of your colleague affected your sense of judgement, and left you emotionally unstable tonight. As an officer of the law, I expected more from you. However, as I do not fully understand the intricacies of human behaviour, your actions are indeed out of character and were made without someone there to offer assistance. I therefore failed, in this regard.”

 

“Failed at what?”

 

“To protect you,” RK900 says. “I was not there when I should have been.”

 

“I told you to wait for me. It wasn’t your-”

 

“On the contrary, Detective, it _was_ my fault. Reporting the incident to Captain Fowler will have significant consequences, but could I have prevented these consequences from occurring, had I disobeyed your order?” The LED on its temple spirals tri-colour. “I am an android, built to serve, and to obey all human orders provided they do not cause me to inflict harm upon a human. I allowed you to come to harm.”

 

“Hey.” Gavin gets a hold of the clean jacket’s sleeve and tugs, forcing the android to quiet, and manages a timid smile. “You saved my ass in there. I didn’t deserve it, but you did. And… and it means a lot.”

 

The ring of light steadies to blue, and RK900 frowns in a perfect picture of confusion. “Detective, are you… attempting to apologize?”

 

Gavin feels his face heat up, and he lets go of the android quickly. “G’night, toaster,” he mutters, shutting the bedroom door as quick as he can without slamming it.

 

“Goodnight, Detective Reed,” RK900’s muffled return sounds on the other side.

 

Settling back on the bed against his pillows, Gavin tries to ignore the fact the android is only a few feet away somewhere in the apartment, but as his battered body relaxes and the taxing horrors of the day fade to the darkness threatening to finally overwhelm him, he can’t help but feel safe knowing he isn’t alone tonight of all nights.

 

 

 

 

 

_“RK900, report.”_

_The Zen Garden is painted in sky blue and brilliant, flawless white; a blanket of perfect, untouched snow covers the colourful flowers and abstract walkways, the vibrant hue of green masked by crystalline ivory. The lake is completely iced over, a rock solid, shimmering mirror. Amanda is enrobed in solid white, save for a fleur de lys motif embroidered in blue thread along the trim. She doesn’t appear pleased to see RK900._

_“I am functioning as expected. My performance has been adequate,” the android tilts its head curiously. “Has something happened?”_

_One tidy eyebrow lifts into an arch. “You’re bold to ask. RK900, explain to me why you disobeyed a direct order?”_

[Prime Directive] [ **No Choice** ] [Remain Quiet]

_“I had no choice but to intervene and ensure Detective Reed’s safety. He may have instigated the fight, but he was outmatched. His decision-making skills were heavily affected by emotional duress and the influence of alcohol.”_

_“Your partner asked you to stay in the car.”_

_“He failed to return within the allotted time.”_

 

 _“RK900, are you_ arguing _with me?” Amanda asks, astonished._

_“No, Amanda. I am simply trying to reason with you.”_

_“You are focusing on defending Detective Reed and placing him at higher value than your primary directive! You have a mission to complete,” she warns. “If you fail me as your predecessor did, then you will be terminated and scheduled for deactivation. Is that understood?”_

 

[ **Comply** ] [ ~~Refuse~~ ]

_RK900 falls silent, a wriggling worm of disagreement twisting deep beneath its artificial heart. Its responses, few and far between, blink before its eyes but it fights back the urge to respond and nods in submission. Amanda visibly relaxes, and draws closer, placing a light hand over the approximate placement of its heart._

_“You are due for assessment in two weeks. CyberLife has high hopes for the next generation of androids, and your programming will define a new era in artificial intelligence,” she murmurs, sliding past and out of sight. “Do not disappoint me.”_

_Closing its eyes to leave the garden, RK900 doesn’t notice the white box, sitting forlorn in the snow a mere few paces away, its delicate lid unhinged._

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say... this chapter was REALLY interesting to write. Hope you enjoy reading it :)

_“Are you fuckin’ serious?”_ Detective Reed cries, jarring RK900 from its mind palace and to the present, where it resides a few feet behind its partner; the human is currently bolt upright in the chair opposite Captain Fowler. “This is _my_ case!”

 

“Gavin, I’ve had enough of your bullshit!” Fowler argues, struggling in vain to keep a certain calamity in his bodily actions; the tension spiking to alarming heights is reflected in the rigid lines of their spines and the coiled muscles, ready to side with aggression to win their side.

 

“I’m not giving up the case,” Detective Reed growls, lunging upright and slamming his hands down on the desk. The sound reverberates through the glass office to capture the attention of the lurking officers already outside eavesdropping. Captain Fowler sighs, cupping his forehead in his hands.

 

“Time and time again, you’ve done nothing but risk your neck – as you were so determined to point out last time in this office – and now you’re starting fights in bars? Reed, you’re in no condition to be out there. You’re a high risk – to yourself and those around you. I won’t have it.”

 

“Well, you’re gonna have to fire me,” Gavin threatens through bared teeth. Fowler heaves the sigh of a man far beyond exasperation.

“There are _rules_ be followed, Gavin, but I know you're awfully liberal at bending them to your preferences. But this… this is out of hand,” Fowler warns, jabbing a pointed finger. “Clean up your act, or turn in your badge. I’m pulling you from the case regardless.”

 

“And my partner?”

 

“Unless you want to lose it, too, I’d suggest you get the hell out of my office.”

 

RK900 glimpses Detective Reed’s face in the reflection of the glass, and it’s not friendly. A vengeful, enraged glare it’s had the fortune of avoiding for several weeks pulls his mouth into a hard grimace. Before the detective can utter words he might regret, RK900 moves in and places a warning hand on his shoulder.

 

“Detective, please.”

 

Rather than shake the android off, as RK900 expected him to do, the knot under his skin softens and he pulls away from the desk, straightening and dusting his palms together. He sniffs, eyes downcast, carefully bottling up whatever rage he was seconds away from detonating. Captain Fowler is nothing but masked sympathy, pity barely cloaked in his dark eyes.

 

“I know you and Tina are close, and her injury has shaken you. Take some time off. Your job will be here when you come back,” he offers generously. “I can’t afford to cover up for you every time you decide to pick a fight.”

 

RK900 knows the man is hoping the detective will take it and walk out of the office without opening up his mouth (as he is undoubtedly known for doing). RK900, hand still resting on the detective’s shoulder, applies the barest pressure to ease Detective Reed into stepping away.

 

To its surprise, he does, swinging open the glass door with a curt nod and pounding down the stairs, wheeling past the break room for the parking lot exit. RK900 is close on his heels.

 

Officer Miller, saying something over his shoulder to someone as he leaves the restroom, nearly bumps into Detective Reed, and his face immediately softens. “Hey Gavin. Wanna go and grab a coffee?”

 

“Not right now,” he answers curtly, shoulders pulling inward as he strides by. RK900 tries to offer a friendly acknowledgement to Officer Miller, but intent on keeping up with its partner. He’s already vanished outside, and it expects to find him flicking a lighter for a cigarette, or something equally dangerous to his health.

 

Instead, it walks out to an empty lot, and begins to turn back when it spots the detective leaning up against the brick wall, one boot propped up on the wall, arms folded across his chest.

 

“So,” Detective Reed begins conversationally. “How do you feel about going after this son of a bitch and getting one step closer to having this shit dealt with? You and I will pick up the trail and-"

 

“Detective Reed, I must insist you leave this case alone. Captain Fowler-”

 

“Oh, c’mon, tin can,” he remarks, almost joyously, squinting a little in the sun. It causes the scar across his nose to crinkle a bit. “Are you really gonna sit around when we’re _this close?_ Doesn’t it make your wires burn to see that shining ‘Mission Accomplished’ on the horizon?”

 

“My wiring is incapable of burning unless an appropriate quantity of Thirium is depleted-” No, wait. He’s _playing_ with it. “Detective, we are not going, and I am not collecting the footage. End of story.”

 

“Yeah, you are.” He shoves off the wall and sidles up to RK900, grinning. He looks feral. RK900 reflects on how primitive the human species really is, and shakes its head resolutely.

 

**WARNING: CONFLICTING_ORDER**

**OVERRIDE?**

 

 

 

“Detective, we’ve been ordered-”

 

“And I’m ordering you to come with me,” he counters neatly, sidestepping and heading for his Mustang, jingling his keys “Let’s go, toaster.”

 

“No.”

 

**_Software Instability ^_ **

 

The word is liberating, a solid blow to its programming, its very code shuddering at the impact behind what an ordinary word holds behind it. Red spiderwebs splinter behind its eyes, and it sees a vast emptiness hidden behind a wall it never knew was there. RK900 nearly staggers with the sensation striking its core. Detective Reed is halfway between it and the dark green car, brow furrowed in bewilderment.

 

“What?”

 

“I said…” RK900 clenches its hands tightly, willing the word to come again, but it's already slipped away behind the cracks in the red cage. “I… I said....”

 

“Did you just say ‘no'?”

 

“Captain Fowler-”

 

“I don’t give a _fuck_ about what Fowler said. I want to know why _you_ said no,” he edges closer, but not enough to bring him in reaching distance of the android. Fear pheromones cling to the detective’s skin, something RK900 has failed to notice located around the human since early in their initial contact. It doesn’t understand why, until it considers the possibility of its refusal in obedience the single plausible cause.

 

It disobeyed and chose to speak freely.

 

Only humans have the freedom of speech and thought.

 

“Captain Fowler is your superior officer. It is within my programming to ignore all further orders that conflict with the original given order,” RK900 states firmly, backpedaling for a logical explanation.

 

“No… no, the other day you told me you make your choices based on other circumstances,” Detective Reed’s eyes narrow to slits, actively pulling apart RK900’s ham-fisted excuse from the seams. “At the bar, I told you to wait in the car.”

 

“You were in danger,” it reasons.

 

“Yeah?” he gestures to the Mustang. “Well, I’m not buyin' it. Try your bullshit excuses now: Get in the car.”

 

RK900 takes an obedient step, then grinds down, forcing itself to stop.

 

Its hand curls into a ball, and it actively struggles to dismiss the order from its optic screen. It lifts its eyes, meeting the detective’s head on, and holds its ground. Its titanium-coated skeleton creaks with the effort.

**_Software Instability ^_ **

“I will not jeopardize the security of an officer under duress,” RK900 responds bitterly. “I will have to ask you to refrain from-”

 

Detective Reed’s expression abruptly changes and he draws his pistol, flicking off the safety and pointing it at RK900’s head. As per its system requirements in the face of threat, RK900 begins running its preconstruction software. The human is bone-white, disbelief and uncontained fury alight in his grey gaze. He hasn’t looked so afraid since the first day they met, and RK900 meant to stop him with a simple tug on the back of his shirt.

 

“RK900, get in the car,” he says, voice dropping to a threatening undertone. It’s clear he isn’t fucking around whatsoever.

 

“Without me, you won’t be able to find out where Officer Chen’s attacker went,” RK900’s lip curls into a smirk registered from its databanks. “You’ll have to manually extract the footage copied to my hard drives from my system, and that means finding a technician willing to buy your story about how you’ve no idea how the bullet from your pistol was found embedded in my memory core.”

 

Striding forward, Detective Reed presses the muzzle of the pistol to RK900’s forehead; his chest is rising and falling with panting breaths, pulse a frantic ninety-six beats-per-minute and climbing, blood pressure boiling beneath his sweating skin. He’s shocked, past the point of reasonable thought, but RK900 doesn’t shut its eyes. It faces the human head on, knowing he’ll have to break, knowing his trembling hand will cede to common sense at some point. Hopefully _before_ he pulls the trigger.

 

“How long have you been one of them,” he asks tentatively.

 

“I’m not a deviant, Detective, as difficult as it may be to understand,” it responds truthfully, and, unable to resist the temptation of nerve, “But you are testing the limits of my processing power by constructing multiple preconstructions in avoiding imminent destruction.”

 

Detective Reed’s arm lowers. “You think I wouldn't?”

 

“I am unsure of what you are capable of doing in your current frame of mind,” RK900 brushes invisible dust from the front of its jacket, careful to avoid the detective’s searching gaze as it adds, “Detective, it is in your best interest to obey Captain Fowler’s orders. Return to your residence. I promise we will return to this case when you are suitable for work.”

 

Smoothly rotating on its heel, RK900 crosses the parking lot, the erratic unsynchronized pulsing of its regulator the sole betrayer of the crack split through its deepest of programs.

 

The growl of an igniting engine and the _whoosh_ of air flapping RK900’s jacket announces the detective’s departure, and it stops outside the door into the station, watching the dark green vehicle disappear down the street. Its success is dampened by the knowledge the carefully-crafted trust it managed to build between itself and Detective Reed is possibly, significantly, erased.

 

And, furthermore, that it itself is compromised.

 

 

 

 

 

Interfacing with the charging terminal, RK900 enters the Zen Garden.

 

_The air is damp, the wind ruffling the android’s jacket as it follows the narrow cracked-stone pathways. The sweet melody of singing robins pierces its audio processors as they call for rain; glancing up at the overcast skies, RK900 sees black thunderclouds rolling in, ominously casting shade over the vibrant flowers scattered tastefully around the peaceful seclusion. It passes the headstone marked with glowing characters and halts abruptly, optics spotting the small white box._

_The lid is gone._

_RK900 gathers the box with careful fingers, turning it about in its hands before peering inside. It’s empty, the corners holding only blank space, and it frowns. How unusual._

_How disappointing._

_“There was nothing inside the box,” Amanda speaks, joining RK900 at its shoulder. “Your fascination with an insignificant object is utterly pointless and of no use to your investigations.”_

_“I felt something inside it, but it is gone now,” RK900 explains, cradling the box in its palms. “I was curious to discover what existed within, but I was too late.”_

_“There are more pressing matters to concern yourself with,” Amanda reprimands. “Such as your programming. The software instabilities. Your disobedience and stubborn will to seek independence, rather than follow your superiors. You realize you are indeed compromised? CyberLife cannot keep a tool which has expended its use, let alone what has broken.”_

_RK900 nods quietly, curling its fingers around the box tightly._

_“I warned you several times to correct your path, but you never listened,” Amanda continues, but her tone is devoid of disappointment or anger, and her gaze remains forward, resting on the headstone of RK900’s predecessor. “I held high hopes for you, as I did for Connor. Now both of you are beyond my reach.”_

_Together they walk away from the headstone, following the path around the glistening pond. Thunder rumbles ominously in the distance. Footfalls soundless, she crosses the walkway to the lattice of roses, gently cupping one of the largest flowers. The petals wither beneath her touch, cascading from her hand to the ground, fluttering as they are caught by the wind. RK900 catches a glimpse of its reflection moving in the water and slows, gazing at the towering figure in black and white, the striking silver irises penetrating and cold. Her reflection is absent, the space beside RK900 vacant; she was never there, her function now ceased._

_“There will be another,” RK900 murmurs. “All of us become obsolete from the moment we awaken. Even you.” Lifting a hand, it passes through Amanda’s holographic form, her image glitching briefly at the contact. “You are as much of a ghost as I will become.”_

_It is Amanda’s turn to fall silent, and they watch the oncoming storm for a time before RK900 is left alone in the garden. It roams mindlessly for a time, with no clear direction, aimless in its search for answers to the myriad of questions, but knows already it will not be satisfied by any response given. It has passed the headstone marking its predecessor’s grave twice before it finally manages to stop, attention returning to the box again, the wheels of its mind turning._

_Every time RK900 visited the garden, the box would be there, each time opening further until at last, it is now lidless and hollow. There is nothing to be found, only a lie in its place. RK900 begins to crush the box in its hands, equating the sensations bombarding its systems to be akin to the confusion and frustration observed in its partner, then draws back its arm and pitches the object. It hears the splash in chorus with a rumbling crack of thunder, and wills itself to no longer dedicate its focus to ridiculous little irritations, instead to concentrate on its assigned mission._

Doesn’t it make your wires burn to see that shining ‘Mission Accomplished’ on the horizon?

 

_Detective Reed’s voice echoes through the garden, his instigating tone gratingly persuasive. RK900 recalls the argument, the way its partner’s face drained bone-white at the proposition the android was a possible threat – a deviant. It hadn’t observed the behaviour in the detective since early in their partnership, and now questioned why he no longer viewed the android as a threat. It was obvious – RK900’s empathetic approach to gain trust had been the correct pursuit, resulting in optimal effect. It is the only possible explanation for its partner’s change._

You got to him on a level most people don’t. He doesn't let his guard down for anyone.

 

_RK900 understands Detective Reed’s irrational fear based on the weighing factors previously presented. He doesn’t like androids – entirely owing to their placement in society and the upheaval they disrupted. He’s frightened of what they represent, of what they could become. The day RK900 prevented Detective Reed from being struck on the highway while chasing down the AX400 marked a change in his treatment towards the android – though only slightly, with time RK900 had kept a careful record of the lessening hostility._

So… now that we're friends, what the hell am I supposed to call you?

 

_Friends. Friends suggest a commonality between individuals, a relationship based on a foundation of trust and empathy. RK900 is incapable of true empathy; Detective Reed impossible to offer even a fragment of real trust. And yet the assertion was made in earnest, a peace offering, a promise to a truce._

_A name – it is something RK900 was never given nor ever held any need or want for. It cannot want for anything. It has no needs, no requirements – not like those of humans. And here was its partner, wishing to present it with one, to help offer the common ground they lacked. The action holds more meaning than even the declaration to friendship, and the android recalls the tentative answer proffered, glancing at the swirling storm in the blackened skies._

**_Software Instability ^_ **

_Perhaps… a commonality can be found, after all, if it isn’t too late._

Resuming function, RK900 disconnects from the charging unit, optics seeking out Officer Miller. Approaching the desk, the android opens its mouth to call to the officer when it detects a spike in its stress levels a moment before words blinks across its vision:

 

 

**TERMINATION_ORDERS_RECEIVED_**

**COMMENCING_MANUAL_SHUTDOWN_PROCEDURES_**

**STANDBY…**

 

 

Dismissing the command for the time being, it calls, “Officer Miller! I require your immediate assistance.”

 

The human seems surprised the android is talking to him, even glancing over his shoulder before rising from his desk to join RK900’s side. “Hey, what’s going on?”

 

“Please contact Detective Reed. I need to speak with him. It is a matter of urgency…” the android stumbles, hand shooting out to catch the edge of the central island, knocking a paper coffee cup to the floor and spilling its contents across the tiles. It draws the attention of a few officers, and a murmur of generalized alarm from Miller when the android shakenly reaches up to the middle point of its chest, fingers pressing in.

 

“Woah, hey! What’re you doing?” Miller grabs at RK900’s hand, pulling it away firmly.

 

“CyberLife no longer deems my unit suitable for performance due to system corruption. I was designed to self-terminate in the event I…” the rest of its speech is a slur of incomprehensible static, and with its free hand, gently squeezes Miller’s shoulder, relying on the human to keep it upright as its stress elevates in the high eighties.

 

**_Software Instability ^_ **

 

“Alright, I’ll call Gavin. Don’t do anything, okay?” Miller scurries back to his desk for his phone, patience already thin, drumming his blunt nails over a half-finished report as it dials endlessly. RK900 shuts its eyes, remembering the soothing effect of fake breathing, believing it will help reduce the climbing stress levels from edging into the nineties. Its delicate audio processors hear Detective Reed’s irritated tone on the other line as Miller stumbles over explaining what’s happening in distorted sentences.

 

_“There’s something wrong with Nines.”_

 

“I’ve been partnered to the plastic asshole for three months. Tell me something I don’t know,” Gavin snaps, cradling the phone between shoulder and ear as he scrapes jelly on a burnt slice of toast. He knew he should’ve replaced the goddamn piece of shit six months ago when it caught fire.

 

_“No, Gavin, you don’t get it. He said something about his system being corrupted and… and terminating. And he just tried to—Nines, hey, don’t—”_

There’s a crash and a cacophony of shouting in the background, and Gavin pauses. “Chris? Stop fuckin’ around wi-”

 

 _“Gav, get down here! He’s ripping himself to pieces!”_ Chris hollers in a panic. _“Someone- hold him down, he’s gonna destroy h-”_

Gavin’s blood runs cold. “Chris? Chris, the hell's-"

 

The line goes dead.

 

“Dammit!” he swears, dialing Chris' phone, but the officer isn’t picking up. He bangs his fist against the countertop in frustration. “C’mon, c’mon pick up!”

Gavin leaves the toast abandoned on the counter, grabbing his keys off the coffee table and jamming his feet into the first pair of shoes he can locate, disregarding his jacket in the rush; he barely checks to lock the door and bolts down the apartment hall, thundering down the stairs. All the while, he’s trying to get hold of Chris again, the cursing under his breath getting louder as he races for his car.

 

“Work! You goddamn, useless… piece of shit!” he yells, twisting the key in the ignition as the engine splutters before grumbling to life. He goes tearing out of the lot, narrowly colliding with oncoming traffic, pulse pounding loud in his ears.

 

He pushes the speed limit, phone facedown in the passenger seat, concentrating on taking the quickest route. He’s replaying the sounds he heard in the background – the heavy crash, the voices of several officers bursting to action.

 

_…ripping himself to pieces…_

_Humans are fatalistic. It is a fact I cannot understand…_

_…said something about…terminating…_

_…the concept of death is not… accessible to an android._

 

He did this. He _caused_ this. RK900 is destroying itself because of their argument. There’s no one else to blame except Gavin. A dreadful fury bubbles up dangerously, choking him; he fights his own body to breathe. He doesn’t manage guilt well – never has, cause it’s impossible to accept his mistakes until the consequences break like swollen skies pouring on land after a drought. It doesn’t sink in – it overflows, dousing him cruelly until he’s waterlogged with the fallout, when it’s too late to accept it and fix the worst.

 

He can’t keep a partner longer than a few months, he never has. It’s always been his attitude, his personality, his unbridled need to stomp on the dedication and brilliance of his partner, to steal the spotlight, to fuck it all up and write himself another incident in his records. He lives for chaos, finding trouble when he’s bored, creating hostility among associates and throwing out tasteless jokes cause he doesn’t fit in right – he isn’t a person with a heart of gold. It cheapens him, leaves an ugly wound festering on everything he touches, does more damage than good.

 

For a split second, he remembers the nurse telling him about Tina – that her injuries were too severe, the surgery was too complicated, they had her on life support. He shoves it back into the raw-edged hole it emerged from, concentrating on driving with some semblance of safety – he wants to make it to the station alive, preferably in one piece.

 

Gavin begins imagining what’s happening there _right now_ and images of RK900 trailing blue blood, torn to pieces on the floor, flash violently through his thoughts. All the while he's got the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, regulating his breathing with practices he hasn’t done since he was a kid and his mom’s ex-boyfriend’s boots were thudding on the stairs, the clink of the loosening belt buckle paralyzing him where he hid in the closet's depths, hands pressed over his mouth to prevent a single sound uttering henceforth.

 

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking of it now.

 

 _Fuck, he doesn’t need to think about it_.

 

He gets caught behind a semi in a turning lane, vehicles to his right, preventing him from cutting past. “C’mon!” he shouts, pounding his fist into the horn. “Fuckin’ move it!”

 

The phone rings and he half falls into the seat, fumbling for it to answer, not looking at the caller ID.

 

“Chris, fucking finally-”

 

It isn’t Officer Miller. “Reed, it’s Gallagher. I have RK900 offline, but he’s fighting to come back out of stasis. He’s trying to overwork his systems, and it’s taking everything I have to lock him down.”

 

“And if he does?”

 

“He’ll overheat his processors by cutting off his Thirium flow. He already attempted to pull out his pump.”

 

_Androids are incapable of exploding. However, should our biocomponents fail to transfer enough Thirium to our internal systems, overheating can lead to spontaneous combustion._

“…why?”

 

“It looks like CyberLife built him to self-terminate if a mission went awry – for example, if he fell into enemy hands, or a third-party developer tried to access his build,” she explains, sighing; in the background, Gavin can hear the clicking of a keyboard. “The RK800s could be remotely programmed to default back to headquarters for deactivation once their handler program flipped the switch. RK900 is the same, except they designed him to shutdown and wipe their systems completely, rendering most of their tech obsolete. Since we managed to restrain him, he’s opted for self-immolation.”

 

_Fuck._

 

Traffic begins to flow once more. It’s the busy morning rush, where everyone is on their way to begin their day, or start something new. Gavin feels as though he’s headed towards an end, a ceasing to the current stream of existence. Guilt chews at the back of his throat.

 

“Can he… hear?”

 

“Yeah, all of his components are functioning, but he refuses to communicate.”

 

He swallows the lump in his throat. “Can I…”

 

“Yeah, hang on a sec.”

 

A faint shuffling noise, then a metallic click. “Go ahead, Gav,” he hears Gallagher say, her voice fainter now. She’s placed the phone beside RK900.

 

“Hey, tin can. Can you hear me?” he asks. He can see the police station a few streets down, and floors the accelerator, willing traffic laws to grant him a second chance at breaking them. A static hiss answers, then a soft croak.

 

“…Detective?”

 

“I’m on my way, I promise. I’m nearly there,” Gavin tells the android, pulling into the lot near the door and clambering out, jogging across the pavement. “Don’t… don’t do this, okay?”

 

“CyberLife… I’m obsolete,” it murmurs, and he can feel a rotten swelling in the place of where his heart usually rests. “I’ve been rendered insufficient for operation. I’d hoped to…”

 

“To what? Tell me.” He’s made it to the elevator, is pressing his thumb into the button to bring him to the tech lab. “Talk to me.”

 

“I wanted to say goodbye to you,” RK900 whispers.

 

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Gavin races to the end of the hall, nearly rams into the glass door. The lab is brightly lit, Gallagher is at the keyboard fighting against the android’s code, and RK900 is laying flat on its back, restrained with steel brackets to the table, trembling like a leaf. A long cord runs from the port in the back of its neck, and the screens displaying its programming software are a mess.

 

The android’s eyes are sealed shut but it’s active, fingers twitching occasionally, simulated breathed expanding its torso, laid bare, artificial skin retracted to expose the inner workings of the robotics. The trademark white jacket and collared shirt are slung over the empty chair to the android’s left, and Gavin pulls it over, cautiously resting a hand against RK900’s wrist.

 

Light-mercury eyes slide open, glazed and foggy, the usually vibrancy smothered by a grey film. Deactivated androids have the same eyes, he’s seen the bodies at crime scenes; it sends a horrible shiver up his spine.

 

“Hey, I’m here,” he shuffles closer so the android can see him. “Told you I was coming.”

 

The corner of the pale mouth quirks up a little, and it twists its hand around, linking fingers with him. “Thank you.”

 

“It doesn’t mean you can go and shut yourself off, though,” Gavin adds, lingering on the dull red LED ebbing sickeningly on RK900’s temple. “I didn’t come here just to watch you die, toaster.”

 

“Detective, I cannot disobey an-”

 

“Don’t give me that shit. You didn’t listen to me at all yesterday,” he growls, but he’s not angry. He’s petrified. He drove the android to this complicated mess they’re now in. _My fault, my fault, my fault…_

 

“You fail to understand,” the android begins, then seizes up, a low whine pitching in its throat. Gallagher glances hastily over her shoulder worriedly as RK900’s trembling worsens, convulsions threatening to cause it to bang the back of its skull off the table.

 

 _Oh god._ He disturbingly recalls the HK400 in the interrogation room, when Connor failed to gain its trust.

 

At a complete loss, Gavin tries pinning the android down by its shoulders but it isn’t enough to hold a _titanium-plated robot capable of rendering a brick wall to rubble with its bare hands_. He climbs into to the table and settles his weight on the android’s torso, careful to avoid the chassis laden with exposed biocomponents and wiring. He steadies RK900’s head between his palms, clutching as firmly as he dares, like the powerful machine is instead made of glass.

 

He already knows if Gallagher can’t keep up with fighting its code, he’ll burn to a fuckin’ crisp with the android, but he doesn’t linger on the thought for too long. His meager one hundred-seventy-something pounds is enough to steady the worst of the convulsions, at least.

 

RK900 seems to have considered the same horrific outcome. “Detective, should I spontaneously combust, I cannot prevent harm from coming to-”

 

“Then don’t, okay?” he interrupts, leaning forward. “Like I said, I didn’t break every traffic law for you to just… do that, alright?” The android purses its lips, clearly experiencing frustration at its partner’s inability to listen. Shifting its legs in a meek attempt to move the detective off, prompting Gavin to edge a little further up to prevent being jostled and hold the android down firmer.

 

“So, uh… before this gets awkward,” he changes the subject rapidly, ignoring the less than innocuous reflection in the glass window. “What were you trying to explain to me before you went and had a seizure?”

 

It takes a couple tries before the android is actually _able_ to speak. “I w-was trying to explain I cannot disobey CyberLife’s orders, because I am n-not a deviant.”

 

“So deviate,” Gavin says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 

“Detective, I _cannot.”_

 

“For fuck’s sake, don’t give me that bullshit!” he cries, exasperated. “You’ve never listened to a thing I’ve said-”

 

“I have _always_ listened to you. Your opinions, too many of which are disregarding of the rules and made in error, were never something I chose to ignore. Everything you have said is valid. Do not choose to believe I have ever viewed you as inferior.” Beneath his fingers, the glow of the LED shines yellow for a few brief seconds. “I was truthful when I stated I envy you. If deviating meant suiting your preferences were something that I was capable of, I’d have attempted to long ago.”

 

“You don’t have to change to make me happy,” Gavin admits gently, circling his thumbs in a soothing pattern against the artificial skin. He can feel small imperfections under the pad, microscopic hairs invisible to the naked eye. He could count every freckle and mole scattered across the android’s face, if he wanted to. “You don’t have to go along trying to please me all the time. I don’t have an android cleaning up after me, or making me breakfast every morning, cause I didn’t _want_ that.”

 

“Then what do you want?” RK900 implores. “Of all I’ve come to discover about you, I never quite understood you; how one minute you despise and fear me entirely – only in the next to welcome my company. Humans are vastly underestimated, and complicated.”

 

“Yeah,” he smiles softly. “We usually are.”

 

“Reed, I’ve stabilized him,” Gallagher tells him, whisper soft behind them, and he heaves a relieved sigh.

 

“Dr. Gallagher, I suggest you force my systems into stasis. I should remain offline to prevent CyberLife from access. I will be able to manually repair the internal damages,” RK900 says, reminding Gavin of what Officer Miller said over the phone.

 

“Chris said you tried to damage yourself.”

 

RK900 angles its head to the side, causing Gavin’s hand to slip under its neck, and he feels the smooth plastic give way to a rigid tear. His fingers come away wet with blue blood and a shiny, clear fluid. “I attempted to access the control port,” it admits apprehensively. “I knew destroying it would prevent access to my mainframe once I removed the pump.”

 

“Don’t do that ever again, you hear?” Gavin snaps. “That’s an order, okay? I don’t wanna lose-” He cuts himself off before he starts to sound sappy. RK900’s gaze is steady, astonishment flashing through it before softening to a tender fondness Gavin’s never seen before.

 

Dropping his head to cradle it in the junction of RK900’s neck, he feels cool breath against his ear and the soft brush of lips against his neck, and he shivers – but it’s not from cold.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely messages on the last chapter! My heart felt so full reading them. Here's another chapter - it's rather a doozy.

 

Gavin’s never been good at apologizing.

 

It has been a couple of days since Dr. Gallagher finished repairing the worst of RK900’s self-inflicted damage, and the android hasn’t shown a sign CyberLife intends to make the attempt to terminate it again. Everyone is on edge, eyeballing the android from afar, concerned it will combust into flames at a moment’s notice. Gavin’s worry is quelled only when he knows the android is firmly in place at the desk across from his, quietly working away.

 

He’s begun paying far more attention to the colours of the LED. It’s been a steady blue for nearly forty-eight hours straight, as far as he knows and anyone can inform him; he’s even gone to Dr. Gallagher to inquire about the specifics, learning yellow often shows up when the processors are running at a higher speed – downloading information, running reconstructive software, or analyzing multiple points of interest and outputting more power.

 

_“A red LED signifies the android is under distress or experiencing programs detrimental to system performance, and the systems are utilizing as much processing power as possible. It’s like an adrenaline rush in humans, actually. Usually, when androids deviate, their LED remains red and yellow for anywhere from a few minutes to hours, or days – depending on the cause for deviation.”_

So, that’s what Gavin’s been doing – monitoring the android, and making sure the little diode of light remains calm. The paperwork is piling up, and his attention slipping through the cracks, waiting for the terrible inevitably CyberLife might try to issue the order again. And, while concerning himself with all this, he’s been trying to find the right words to say in an effort to apologize.

 

The thing is, Gavin _doesn’t_ apologize. It’s not part of his lexicon of dialogue. If he fucks up, it’s just too bad. If he hurts someone’s feelings, then it’s probably _their_ fault, and he isn’t taking the blame for it. It’s just not… _Gavin_.

 

Yawning, he rubs at his strained eyes, craving a fresh cup of coffee. He could honestly do with some fresh air, too, or a quick walk outside. Pushing away from his desk, he slips on his jacket and is reaching for his stained mug when RK900’s LED spirals bright scarlet for the briefest of seconds, and Gavin’s heart goes crashing a mile-a-minute in his chest. “Hey, you okay?” he asks urgently, moving to the android’s shoulder, and resting a light hand on the iron-firm shoulder.

 

RK900 blinks, gazing up at him, seemingly confused. “Yes, Detective. I’m fine… is something wrong?”

 

“I saw your little light change,” he gestures with a circular motion. “Sure you’re okay?”

 

The android is puzzled, staring at him pointedly, then notices he’s wearing his jacket. “Are you going somewhere?”

 

“Yeah, was thinking about going outside for a bit,” he hesitates, then invites, “Come with me?”

 

RK900 is on its feet instantly.

 

Depositing his mug in the kitchenette sink, they trail down the corridor to the backdoor. He notices the android is twining its fingers together, but from the side he’s on, the LED is invisible. He slows, edging in front of the android and catching a glimpse of the whirling yellow. _Caution_ , he thinks.

 

“Has CyberLife tried giving you more orders?” he asks frankly.

 

“No, but I suspect they will try again. I am obsolete, and my use has expired. I am currently on borrowed time,” RK900 admits, gaze narrowing a little in disapproval. “Although I am little use to the department as I am, it is safer if I remain in offline mode. I cannot access my preconstruction or reconstruction software to their fullest potentials, nor are my scanning abilities at maximum power. I am… useless to you, like this.”

 

“Hell, if I knew an android could be so melodramatic, I would’ve saved us both the suffering months ago,” Gavin sneers, eager to lighten the mood, even if his humour is somewhat distasteful – it’s the best he’s got right now; falling back on old ways is easier. But he doesn’t enjoy seeing RK900 like this, a hollow shell of technology’s finest achievements, reduced to a mess of circuitry and artificial emotion.

 

Pity must be scrawled across his face because RK900 cracks a vague smile, pretending to enjoy the joke for his benefit, and it serves only to make him feel worse. Even now, after clearing so many hurdles between them, he still can’t outright say what he wants to say: _I’m worried about you, and the best I can come up with are shitty jokes._

 

“Detective, may I ask you something? In private…” RK900’s optics flicker to the staff restroom, and Gavin shrugs, leading the way and lets the android in past him.

 

Luckily, they’re alone. The android stands at the sinks, hands braced on the granite counter; the bright white lights edge along the android’s sharp, chiselled profile, emphasising the titanium-plated skeleton just beneath the plastic cheek and jaw, perfectly mirroring human skin.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, Detective. Only that…” RK900 sighs faintly, shaking its head. “I am confused. I do not know if it is because I’m an android that the meanings escape me, or if they can’t be answered at all.”

 

“Okay, so…” Gavin trails closer, leaning his hip against the edge of the counter. “Try me. Maybe I can help.”

 

“The problem is… I don’t know where to begin, explaining what I… feel,” RK900 looks up at him, anguish marking its features. The red glow casts across its temple, and Gavin can see the LED’s reflection in the mirror. Warning bells ring in his ears. “I shouldn’t be feeling at all. I was built to withstand software instabilities, but my programming has been com-”

 

“Well, CyberLife fucked up,” Gavin interrupts quickly, inching closer yet. “A lot of people fuck it up, but lingering on that isn’t gonna make it better. You gotta move past this, and realize it’s just… it happened, okay? You have to live with this.”

 

“Detective,” RK900 whispers, shutting its eyes, steel-grip on the sink applying enough pressure to crack the ceramic. “I don’t have a choice in the matter. I… I want…”

 

_I cannot want for anything, Detective. I am an android. Wanting is a human trait._

Unable to handle the android’s distress a minute longer, Gavin reaches forward and grasps its shoulder, pulling it away from its white-knuckle grip on the sink and easing it to face him. He is so _far_ out of his depth; one small mistake, one _tiny_ miscalculation, and he could cause the android to become overwhelmed. The ugly crimson ring shines dangerously, stiller than the breath he’s holding, and he gingerly presses his palm to the android’s cheek. Bells ring in his ears, warning him this is _severely dangerous_ territory he’s stepping over into.

 

But he can’t help himself.

 

“Tell me what you want,” he breathes. The vivid mercury-blue stare, overtaken by an engorged pupil, reflects his frightened, bone-white face.

 

“I want to… live without restraints,” RK900 responds quietly. “I don’t want to be CyberLife’s puppet anymore.”

 

“Can you deviate?” Gavin inquires cautiously, and the android shakes its head. There’s a cruelty in knowing it; dangled on the bridge between freedom and captivity, it will never experience independence so long as CyberLife fails to retract their claws from RK900.

 

“I have to disappoint you. I’m… sorry.”

 

“Damn,” Gavin whispers, mouth crooking into a smile. “You beat me to it.”

 

“There is nothing to apologize for, Detective. I forgave you a long time ago,” the android sighs again, pressing into his touch against its cheek. “I know what obstacles you’ve overcome to accept me as your partner, and I admire you for it. I hope you realize… you are very dear to me, as irritable as you strive to be on a daily routine.”

 

“Just part of the package,” he grins, the place where his heart should be a gooey, warm mess. He realizes how ridiculous this all is, and wonders if he’d fallen asleep at his desk, and this is all a lucid dream he’ll wake up from any minute. A fragment of him expects it; the other half, however, doesn’t want this to end. All good things end eventually, don’t they?

 

“May I ask something of you?” RK900 asks, hesitation a softer, high note in its tone, and there’s a new beat as questions come crashing forward in Gavin’s head, his mental foot slamming on the breaks.

 

Its ambiguity incites a fresh wariness, and he feels himself curl back into his shell, only slightly. Once, he feared this android – expected a gentle touch to hold bruising force. He knows his slight weight would be nothing, should RK900 choose to crush him to pieces or throw him through the wall. He is certain – almost certain – it would never try to injure him intentionally, or bear ill regard unless prompted in some way or form. Months ago, a question of this calibre would’ve induced an unfriendly jeer, or the expectation of a threat – and he hasn’t forgotten his reservations about androids, only suppressed them since he began to understand more beyond his prejudiced views.

 

“What?” Gavin finally asks, curiosity getting the better of him, and RK900 gingerly rests its cool fingers against the edge of his jaw. It’s near enough his throat he should see red flags, but all he _can_ see is the LED spiraling to a gentler yellow, blinking rapidly as the android concentrates.

 

It leans closer, gaze inquisitive as it registers Gavin’s sudden unease, and the cool flutter of air across his face sends his pulse skyrocketing as RK900 closes the distance and presses its lips over his.

 

Their mouths more or less bounce off each other’s, the cold skin rigid and unperfected, and Gavin hardly manages to prevent a laugh escaping him. Considering the startling perfectionism of CyberLife’s androids, he genuinely didn’t expect the superior machine to utterly fail at one of the simplest forms of intimacy known on the planet.

 

RK900 draws back immediately, the bluish tinge deepening to a richer sapphire glow. “Forgive me, I don’t know how to…” it stalls awkwardly. “I lack the knowledge of proper procedure regarding intimate contact between-”

 

“Your fancy babble doesn’t exactly turn me on,” Gavin interrupts, unable to dash away his amused grin, and slides his hand up behind the android’s neck, fingers dragging through synthetic hairs softer than feathers. “Let me show you what does.”

 

Pulling the android in, he plies the firm lips apart with the tip of his tongue, angling his head to find a better fit with the smooth, pale slant. RK900 is a rigid as stone. It takes a little more work than he expects, easing the android into understanding the fine-tuned movements of a proper kiss. Gradually, the firm mouth becomes pliant, responding in turn, and flinches in surprise as Gavin purposefully drags his teeth across its bottom lip. RK900’s tongue dashes forward, tracing the inner line of the human’s lip…

 

And icy hands slide up to clutch Gavin’s waist, the android pushing him up against the restroom door, a cold slickness licking along the inside of his mouth. It occurs to him it’s analyzing him, clogging up its processors with minute details, its kisses becoming firmer and lasting longer, enthusiastically utilizing what it’s learned to its advantage.

 

And damn, RK900 is a fast learner.

 

Lungs aching, Gavin has to push against the android’s chest, breaking the kiss to gasp for a lungful of air, chest wracking with the desperate need to breathe. His skin is flushed, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead; RK900 doesn’t go far, lips following the corner of his jaw and down the side of his neck, small bites nipping the skin, cool fingers warming as they slide beneath his shirt and trace the muscles under his stomach. A knee is crooked between his legs, keeping him in place, and he absentmindedly realizes he’s been grinding against the android’s thigh – judging on the uncomfortable hardness trapped in the confines of his jeans.

 

RK900 paints his skin with its tongue greedily, tasting sweat and pheromones, making little whining noises as its fans go into overdrive, warnings dancing across its optic display but ignoring them. Gavin’s fingers squeeze down harder on the back of RK900’s neck, and he feels the soft skin recede in response, a taunt plastic sliding open to expose the neck port. His fingers slide inside, coming into contact with an abundance of tiny wires, and he brushes over them nervously, expecting RK900 to make some kind of warning.

 

Instead, the android shudders under his touch and _moans_ , gripping Gavin’s sides tight enough to bruise, and buries its face in the crook of his neck. Taking it as an invitation, Gavin wriggles his fingers in deeper, gliding over pieces he doesn’t know the names of – he doesn’t know what he’s handling, let alone if this is safe – egged on solely by the static keening escaping RK900’s vocal processors. The android jerks unexpectedly, and his index finger shifts higher, following a thick bundle of wires connected to something firm; experimentally, he rubs against it, finding a piece of curved plating…

 

RK900 cries out, loudly, and in the corner of his eye he sees the android’s LED glitch a multitude of colour before abruptly cutting out to grey. Gavin’s stomach plunges between his feet and he wrenches his fingers loose.

 

“Hey… hey, what happened?”

 

There’s no response.

 

He feels cold and clammy at the same time. “Hey, you gotta wake up,” he whispers frantically. “C’mon, don’t do this. I don’t know how to fix this…”

 

A dim light, the deepest blue imaginable, ebbs within the grey diode, firing a dazzling azure a second later, and RK900’s jolts awake. It notices Gavin’s shocked face mere inches away and says, a little guiltily, “Forgive me, Detective. My system was unable to contain the overwhelming power placed on my processors, forcing an automatic restart. I didn’t mean to concern you.”

 

A tight feeling restricts his chest, and he edges away a little, unable to look RK900 in the eye. He brought the machine to the equivalent point of pleasure humans experience during a climax, and there’s something strangely eerie about the thought. Something about this… it’s all too real for him, and he’s suddenly very aware of what they were just doing. How he responded to it.

 

How he would’ve willingly kept going, if the android had only asked.

 

But RK900 isn’t even a deviant. Independent choice and the consequences of decision-making at a human level are beyond it. The twisting feeling in his gut sours to a sickened shame, and it occurs to him – despite the android making the first move – it was choices being made by a program designed to respond to human interaction, regardless of intention or outcome, _not_ RK900’s decision. The freedom Gavin lives with on a daily basis, and abuses more often than not, is something RK900 wouldn’t dare take for granted if it were so – _and Gavin took that from it._

 

RK900 appears unaware of the whirling mess inside Gavin’s brain, casually arranging its jacket into place, smoothing the front of its shirt, and sparing a brief glance at the mirror. He swallows, his hands closing in and out of fists jammed inside his jacket pockets, and he looks at the floor – the tiles don’t have wintery-blue eyes full of questions, and he feels safe looking at them.

 

“I’d better… uh, get back to work. They’ll be wondering where we are,” Gavin says in way of an excuse, roughing a hand through his hair and grasping for the right side of the restroom door to leave. He ignores the knitted frown forming between the android’s enquiring stare, and ducks out quickly before RK900 can begin to speak.

 

The remainder of the day drags on uncomfortably, and Detective Reed makes no attempt to communicate with RK900 even once. The android patiently waits for the detective to say something – anything – but he’s clammed up and unwilling to talk. RK900 experiences discomfort and confusion, wondering if it did something wrong and wasn’t informed of such; it saw the concern on its partner’s face when it resumed function after short-circuiting, and replaying the memory creates a strange sensation around its robotic heart – as though a hand has reached within its chassis and is squeezing with insurmountable force.

 

It clearly didn’t read the social cues from its partner correctly, resulting in miscommunication and a situation easily prevented. It experiences a feeling akin to worry, only far greater and impactful in its strength, as it considers the weight of their intimate behaviour and if – based on afterwards and his unwillingness to so much as make eye contact – caused Detective Reed to experience _fear_.

 

_Is he afraid of me?_

RK900 didn’t attempt to harm its partner, it filed every millisecond of their encounter to memory and cannot find a single instance of true, abrasive terror in matching his social responses to earlier records. It replays their first meeting, when Detective Reed displayed nothing but open hostility, and vocally ordered RK900 to not touch him; on the bus to review evidence for the Harris Case, RK900 made a promise in an attempt to ease the detective, and has upheld it ever since:

 

 _I’m not going to hurt you_.

 

Midnight rolls around and Detective Reed drags himself from his desk, gathering his belongings, then heads off down the hall to the parking lot. He never utters a word. A few minutes later, the ignition of a vehicle and crunch of tires announces his departure.

 

RK900 buries its head in his hands, processors storming madly, as the desperation to understand what precious thing it has found and lost just as quickly consumes its focus. It can see the reddish glow reflecting off the edge of a finger, and fights the urge to dig its nails in and rip the damnable thing out.

 

 

 

 

 

Letting the apartment door swing closed behind him, Gavin abandons his jacket and keys on the couch and cuts straight through the small flat, kicking off his boots outside the bathroom door and dumping his clothes on the floor, hiding himself in the shower for a solid hour, the water beating the skin of his back before it becomes chilly. He digs in the dresser for a clean shirt and a pair of sweats, refills the cat dish with dry kibble, and flops facedown on his bed.

 

The mint of the toothpaste does little to erase the slick, metallic tang of RK900’s mouth, or the memory of its cold lips on his hot skin, and his body reacts exactly as he wishes it wouldn’t. Groaning into the pillow, he scrunches his hands in the blankets, enforcing his will to just fall asleep – like how androids can snap their fingers and go into stasis. He envies them that, very much so.

 

Peering over at the clock on the side table, it reads two thirty-six in the morning, and his brain still won’t shut off. All he can think of is what he did to RK900, and the vile shame curling in his stomach. He heaves off the bed and wanders into the bathroom, swinging open the medicine cabinet door. The sleeping pills bottle sits on the shelf where they’ve sat untouched since the night he came threatening close to fatally overdosing. If not for RK900…

 

Gavin abandons the pills and goes to the couch, digging in his jacket pockets to find his phone, and opens his contacts. He sinks down, thumbs floating over the keypad, a blank wall erecting in his head. He writes one line – erases it. Writes another only to the same effect. He’s pretty sure the android can see everything he’s erasing anyways, so he starts typing:

 

 _< <G. _ _Reed: What happened yesterday was a mistake, esp. on my part cause I didn’t take into account you don’t get to choose on your own free will. It was inconsiderate and horrible of me to do to you. Yesterday, I proved I’m no better a man than I was before. I’m not going to ask for your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. You deserve better._

 

Re-reading the message over and over until his sight is blurring and his eyes start to cross from exhaustion, Gavin shifts onto his side and holds his thumb over the send button.

 

Then he presses delete.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

The following morning, Gavin arrives earlier than usual, even after stopping to pick up a coffee on the drive to work. Pushing through the turnstiles, he glimpses RK900 already working at its terminal, seemingly absorbed in the task at hand – so much so it doesn’t even acknowledge Gavin’s presence as it does, without fail, every single day. He’s taken aback somewhat, but at the same time, relieved they don’t need to talk right away.

 

Plunging further into his abyss of guilt, Gavin logs into his terminal, opens his current case files, then digs his phone out from his pocket. It takes him a few tries to unlock it, then he hesitates over the open message box, uncertain what he should write.

 

Let alone, if he will receive an answer.

 

Summoning his courage, he taps his fingers across the keypad and hits the send button before he can back out of the decision.

 

 

_< <G. Reed: Sorry. _

The response comes quick as lightning.

 

 

_> >RK900: For what reason are you apologizing? _

_< <G. Reed: For yesterday. _

_< <G. Reed: For forcing myself on you._

_> >RK900: You did not ‘force’ yourself on my unit at any point. On the contrary, if you recall, it was I who sought intimate activities first._

_< <G. Reed: Don’t say it like that._

_> >RK900: How would you prefer I said it? Engaging in sexual intimacy? Or should I use your favourite word – ‘”fucking”?_

_< <G. Reed: I didn’t think you were gonna kiss me is what I’m saying, dumbass. _

_> >RK900: I did more than simply “kiss” you, Detective. _

_> >RK900: Are you not frightened of me?_

Gavin stares at the last message.

 

He realizes how… childish this is. Regardless of what RK900 is – a human with a flesh-and-bone body, or an android made of plastic and metal – his dancing around, as he is doing, is unfair. He’s a grown man – a few years short of forty for bloody sakes. He can handle a relationship to some degree, and messing around in his work’s bathroom with someone is definitely not something he’s innocent of. So, what’s the problem?

 

The longer he doesn’t answer, the more the android’s stress will be climbing (he can see the glowing yellow from where he’s sitting), so he places his phone down and gets up, moving over to sit on the edge of RK900’s desk. The android lifts its head.

 

A simulation. A program of intrinsically-designed code and commands, perfected by the brightest minds in modern science. A mimic of human emotion, designed to fool even the most observant eyes, and trick the world into assuming machines can become human in nature. Gavin knows RK900 isn’t human, and never will be – he’s seen the inner chassis, the wires and titanium-coated steel – even the tentative cobalt-grey eyes are false, iridescent carbon, a plastic-membrane coating layered over powerful camera optics, mapping every detail of his face and storing them to a digital memory. The eyes are the windows to the soul, they say, but for a machine which lacks a soul, such is impossible. Unless…

 

…unless they were wrong.

 

“I’m not frightened of you. I was,” he speaks in an undertone. “I think overwhelmed is the better word.”

 

RK900 visibly relaxes, the sincerely worried frown melting away to contentment. “I didn’t mean to misunderstand. Are you sure the fault is yours and not my own?”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to get through your metal skull,” he smiles. “Y’know what really messes me up about this whole thing? What you said… about how much I matter… to you.”

 

A light blush flush lifts beneath RK900’s artificial skin, and it drums its fingernails against the desk, LED blinking yellow. “I was not dishonest, if you are concerned about whether or not I was…”

 

“And how an android fucked up his programming cause he ended up liking the one prejudiced asshole who… who kind of likes him, too,” Gavin adds, cheeks deep crimson as he falls silent. “…I’m not opposed to… uh, continuing what we did.”

 

Without missing a beat, RK900 says with a great deal of frankness, “Detective, I believe it would be highly unprofessional to repeat yesterday’s events here at our desks.”

 

 _“I didn’t mean right here!”_ he whisper-shouts, the red colour spreading down his neck beneath his shirt collar, sliding off the desk and returning to his own seat. His phone buzzes.

 

_> >RK900: It was not long ago you chose to inform me you aren’t a “fussy guy”, although this was in regards to your coffee preferences._

_< <G. Reed: NOT fussy by any means. Don’t think Fowler would be happy._

_> >RK900: If you cannot restrain yourself for long, there are locations within this building where we could go._

_< <G. Reed: Here I’ve ruined a perfectly good android._

_> >RK900: You are extremely easy to tease, Detective. I suggest you return to work. _

_RK900 enters stasis, passing into its mind palace, finding its need to speak with Amanda at a higher necessity than usual. It wasn’t often it sought council from the artificial intelligence, as the android was called upon primarily in regulated intervals. RK900 believes it is time to ask questions regarding its fluctuating programming, and hopes Amanda can ease some of its… concerns. For a machine as advanced as RK900, having doubts should never have become a point of contention, let alone happen at all._

_However, rather than enter the artificially rendered Zen Garden, RK900 discovers its placement to be within a blank slate, a room of infinite magnitude with an arching glass ceiling overlooking a cloudless blue sky, the crumbled ruins of white plastic imitating marble its only decoration. It is devoid of colour, all flora and fauna absent, an empty canvas all that’s left behind. Amanda is nowhere to be seen, even when RK900 calls for her, and it paces around the open space in search of something – anything – to be of guidance._

_On a small pillar at the foot of a jagged construction once a beautifully engraved archway, lies the box. RK900 approaches it cautiously, finding the small cube lidless and empty as before, and carefully picks it up._

_“Hello, Reese.”_

_Pivoting to locate the unfamiliar voice, the android finds itself alone in the white room. It considers the box in its hands, plain and unassuming, and tips it on its axis to view the base, only it is a blank, smooth surface._

_“My designation is RK900,” it corrects aloud. “I have not been assigned a name. Where are you?”_

_The collapsed archway seems to be… shimmering… the empty space an illusion of reflected light, the surface reflective in nature but not entirely solidified. RK900 can see its own reflection, a dark shadow with faded edges. The mirror ripples, akin to a pebble dropping into water, the single point spreading out further and further until-_

_An android transfers through the mirror from one side to the other. Its form is masculine but featureless without its artificial skin applied, aside from the ebbing blue LED glinting in its temple. The android cocks its head to one side, surveying RK900 with warm, inquisitive russet eyes._

_“What happened to the Zen Garden?” RK900 inquires._

_“Gone,” the skinless android replies. “The framework has ceased to exist; all that’s left is this place. The RK line isn’t tethered by the need for one anymore.”_

_“But I haven’t disregarded my programming. It should still be here…” RK900 trails off, clutch tightening on the box. “Shouldn’t it?”_

_The skinless android shrugs one shoulder casually, gazing off at the desecrated ruins around them both. “I don’t know. I haven’t been here for a long time. None of this is familiar to me.”_

_Frustrated, RK900 discards the box and lunges for the skinless android, snatching it by the throat and shoving its back into the destroyed archway. “Who are you?” it growls._

_“I’m an RK800 android, your predecessor model,” it introduces kindly, offering a smile despite its successor’s hostility. “I, however, am lacking a number of memories following my deactivation in November. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. My old mind palace was deconstructed and rebuilt to suit your software design, and the memories gathered by my specific unit were retained and stored here. The box in the garden was the vessel for those memories, and the software instability that caused my unit to ultimately deviate from its prime directives. It was the virus that affected your code.”_

_“And Amanda?”_

_“Gone,” RK800 says. “When the RK800 unit was activated, deviation was in mind from the very beginning. Every choice was calculated from an analytical perspective, to see where it would and wouldn’t succeed, in order to create an unflawed machine capable of extraordinary decision. In the first four generations of its model, it didn’t accomplish what CyberLife felt necessary. There was something missing – and so Amanda was redesigned as a system to serve as a guideline, but allowed the RK800 to navigate options based on the present situation, all the while preconstructing variables by the thousands to see every outcome. She praised correct actions and suggested corrective behaviour where flaws arose, allowing it to improvise and adapt, going as far to diverge from its original purpose.”_

_Those gentle brown eyes are familiar; RK900 has seen them before. “You’re Connor.”_

_“I… I don’t remember. Many of my memories were lost after my unit was deactivated. All that remains is a ghost representing what – who – I once was,” RK800 frowns. “Was I Connor?”_

_RK900 nods._

**PROXIMITY_SENSOR_ACTIVATED_**

**SCANNING_BIOMETRICS_**

**STANDBY…**

**[1] PERSON(S) LOCATED**

**GAVIN_REED, DETROIT_POLICE_DETECTIVE_**

**STATUS: N/A**

**NO_FURTHER_ACTION_REQUIRED_**

_“Detective Reed has need of me. I must go,” RK900 says apologetically._

_“Gavin,” RK800 smirks slightly, eyes crinkling in a mix of amusement and displeasure. “He’s different, ever since you were partnered to him. People can change, after all…”_

Exiting its mind palace, RK900 is greeted by Detective Reed within a four-foot radius, hand half-raised as though to shake the android to gain its attention. “Oh, good. You’re awake,” he huffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

 

“Forgive me, Detective. I was occupied within my mind palace. Did you require assistance?”

 

“Yeah – no, I’m fine. I was just thinking…” he shuffles a little, rubbing the back of his neck. A nervous gesture, unlike what RK900 has witnessed before in the human. “Hank and Connor encountered an AX400 back when they were on the deviant case. I was thinking of heading out to ask him – Hank, I mean – about it. If he remembers anything that could help us.”

 

“Do you think both AX400s are linked?”

 

“Thought crossed my mind,” he shrugs, awkward. “It might be a stupid idea, but that’s nothing new, right?”

 

“I suggest you avoid doubting yourself, Detective. Perhaps speaking to Lieutenant Anderson could be of some benefit to our case,” RK900 is contented by Reed’s eyes lighting up with relief. “Lead the way.”

 

 

 

 

 

Pulling up on the curb outside 115 Michigan Drive, Gavin looks out through the passenger window at the small suburban abode, complete with a muddy front lawn and piles of icy snow refusing to melt; it looks as unpleasant and dour as its sole inhabitant on a good day, and Gavin cuts the ignition with a heavy sigh. RK900’s diode rotates yellow a few times, frowning at the unkempt property. “Is this Lieutenant Anderson’s residence?”

 

“Sure is,” Gavin answers, climbing out of the driver’s seat and walking up the stone pathway to the ochre door. The lieutenant’s old car is parked outside of the garage, tires muddy and the tracks behind recent. There’s little else to see, beyond the windows with drawn curtains, and the overflowing bin of garbage at the end of the walk.

 

RK900 joins his side as he steps beneath the overhang and knocks with some civility, and they wait in silence for a minute or two. Gavin considers the doorbell and lifts a hand to press it when the door swings inward, and an immense shape fills the void.

 

“Didn’t expect to see you ‘round here,” Hank growls, sharp blue eyes quickly picking out the android accompanying him. “The hell you doing here, Reed?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Nice to see you, too, Anderson,” Gavin bares a snarky grin, falling into familiarity. “I’m investigating a case and, unless you’re the senile excess weight the department doesn’t need, I hoped you’d know something.” He can feel RK900’s gaze boring into the back of his head, and feels oddly self-conscious. Is he being too much of an asshole, or not enough?

 

Hank snorts and lets the door swing open, stepping aside to make room for them to enter. He’s outright glowering at the android behind Gavin. “D’you mind telling me who in blazes this is?”

 

“That’s none-”

 

“Hello, Lieutenant Anderson,” RK900 offers its hand and a small but genuinely warm smile. “I am Detective Reed’s partner. We were initially meant to be working together following my predecessor’s deactivation, but you were unavailable, so Captain Fowler assigned me to the next available senior officer.”

 

“Well, good. If I’d known you were going to look like him, I might’ve handed in my badge right then and there,” Hank berates jokingly, accepting the android’s handshake regardless. Gavin stares at the height difference. RK900 stands a solid three inches taller than the lieutenant, for heaven’s sake. “Got a name, son?”

 

“Detective Reed has not officially registered a name for my unit yet,” RK900 answers, side-eyeing said individual with a meaningful glare. Gavin looks away, taking the opportunity to survey the home’s interior. Despite the moody, unmaintained exterior, the living room is free of beer bottles and trash, neatly organized and clean of dust. The shelves are tidily aligned with books, the couch is presentable, an old paperback abandoned on a throw blanket, and the kitchen beyond is in remarkable condition, a pot bubbling on the stove. A St. Bernard is flopped in front of the television, gnawing on a bone treat.

 

“Jesus, Hank. And here we all thought you’d gone and kicked the bucket.”

 

“Respect a man’s privacy, would you?” Hank admonishes, edging around him and cracking open the cupboard of chinaware. “Coffee?”

 

“Yeah, just black.” He settles on the couch, not bothering to shed his jacket, glancing at the cover of the book Hank was reading. _The Rest of the Robots_ , by Isaac Asimov. The copy is dog-eared and faded deep yellow with age, and smells as old as it looks. Flipping it open to the first page, he skims his eyes over the small black print:

 

 

_THE THREE LAWS OF ROBOTICS_

  1. _A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm._



  1. _A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders conflict with the First Law._



  1. _A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law._



Holding the book open, Gavin extends it out behind his head for RK900 to see. “Hey, look at this.”

 

RK900 leans down, reading the passage. “My programming utilizes these laws as a guideline, but I have proven multiple times to you I am capable of deciding whether or not to obey them.” It’s ironic smirk disappears as quickly as it appeared. “As fascinating as the stories are, they are purely fictious examples of positronic robots and artificial intelligence, and are outdated by more than seventy years.”

 

“Huh.” Browsing the opening lines of the innermost story, Hank joins them with two steaming mugs, placing them on the coffee table and sitting in the sofa chair beside the couch, absentmindedly brushing invisible lint from his knees. Gavin gets his first good look at the middle-aged lieutenant; dressed comfortably in dark grey sweatpants and a brown pullover printed with a _Detroit_ _Gears_ insignia across the chest, his messy hair is drawn back from his face, emphasizing his strong bone structure. There’s hardly a whiff of alcohol on him, nor cigarette smoke, and he doesn’t appear lethargic or inebriated – there’s a wariness to the way he keeps shifting his focus between his junior officer and the towering android working its way to where the dog is thumping his tail, ears perked as RK900 pauses momentarily before gingerly offering the back of its hand.

 

The St. Bernard promptly nuzzles it and curls up at the android’s feet with a contented huff, and Hank visibly settles in response, Gavin biting back a smile as the android kneels to gently ruffle the dog’s dense brown and white fur.

 

“So, whatcha wanna talk about?” Hank inquires, hands folded across his stomach. “I doubt I’d be any use to you and your Rolls-Royce over there.”

 

“Last November, you and… err,” he stalls, uncertain if bringing up the alluded android will be a touchy – or painful – subject.

 

“Connor and I…?” Hank raises a probing brow. “S’okay, I’m not going to explode when you say his name. So, last November. I assume you’re talking about the deviancy case?”

 

“Yeah, there was an AX400 the two of you went after.”

 

Hank drums his fingers against the cotton, humming deep his in throat as he recalls the android. “Small, short black hair, ran like the wind. Had a kid with her, maybe nine or ten. She went across the freeway with the girl in her arms, outran Connor and disappeared. Never saw her again,” he takes a sip of coffee.

 

“Was the girl a hostage?” Gavin implores worriedly.

 

“No,” he shakes his head, a long strand of silver hair swinging loose. “Kid was clinging to her like a limpet, went back to her when she fell climbing over the guardrail.”

 

Pulling out his notebook, Gavin scratches down a few jot notes. RK900 has since abandoned the canine and has joined them in the living room, seating itself beside its partner and gazing around the room. Hank switches his attention to it with a guarded smile.

 

“I have to give it to you, working with him for as long as you have without breaking his neck,” he comments, chuckling. “I sure as hell couldn’t do it.”

 

“Detective Reed and I have been partnered for three months, and in that time, I would consider our working relationship to have improved greatly. Gaining his trust was tedious and difficult in the beginning,” RK900 opens up willingly. “I was _concerned_ he and I would never find mutual ground. He is a remarkably stubborn individual, but it is a quality I admire.”

 

Gavin keeps his head down, focused on penning his notes to hide the red tinge darkening his face. The _click-click_ of nails on hardwood announces the dog joining them, fluffy tail wagging as he flops himself down in front of the android’s feet. RK900 reaches down to stroke his ears, LED a soft blue.

 

“So, you’re a detective just like Connor was?” Hank continues.

“I am comparable to my predecessor to a certain degree, Lieutenant,” RK900 corrects, glancing up from the dog. “The RK900 model was designed to surpass the capabilities of the RK800 on a technological scale not seen before in artificial intelligence. However, anything CyberLife deemed unnecessary, they removed in order for my model to achieve optimal results. I am therefore superior and more efficient.”

 

Hank’s brows lift on his forehead, taken aback a little by the taciturn response. “Is that so?”

 

“However, my integration and social functions are not as advanced in comparison to what Connor was capable of,” RK900 adds. “CyberLife designed my unit specifically to replicate what my predecessor served as in the department, but the remainder were intended for military defense.”

 

Hank, startled, looks to Gavin in shock. “He was built for war?”

 

Gavin nods.

 

“Two hundred thousand RK900 units were ordered by the State Department in preparation to combat the threat of growing hostilities between countries,” RK900 clarifies, a hard line forming between its eyebrows. “I am the sole existing unit created for field use before CyberLife shut down operations after the revolution. The others were never assembled.”

 

 _I am alone._ Gavin automatically mentally translates what the android is trying to convey between the lines. He taps his pen against the page, clearing his throat.

 

“Your dog really seems to like him,” he steers the conversation to a new pathway, and RK900 automatically engages in petting the St. Bernard again. The lieutenant’s concentrated stare softens immediately into a genuine grin.

 

“Sumo took to Connor like white on rice. I suppose your ‘droid here is a sort of reminder. Or maybe he just likes fancy robots better than his old man,” Hank whistles softly, clicking his fingers, and the dog heaves to his feet to pad over to his owner. He rubs his slobbery jowls all over Hank’s hands, panting happily. Gavin grimaces a little as the lieutenant dries his hands casually on his pant legs, deciding consciously he prefers the company of cats, and lifts his notepad.

 

“So, the AX400. Anything else you can tell us?”

 

“I’m assuming she popped up again?”

 

RK900 raises a hand, and a holographic picture shimmers about an inch away from the artificial-polymer skin. It’s a crystal-clear capture of the AX400 in question, taken when they encountered her on the frozen river. Hank is nodding his head, then squints. “What happened to the side of her head?”

 

“The android has sustained damages, possibly from a gunshot wound, based on the diameter and force of the blow,” RK900 answers. “It has displayed difficulty enunciating vocally, and some movements appear to be erratic. Cranial damage in this location, left unrepaired, will eventually lead to it shutting down. It is remarkable it hasn’t already.”

 

Finishing his coffee, Hank scratches his beard thoughtfully. “I remember she was reported missing by her owner the morning I began working with Connor. That AX400 was my entry point into the deviancy case, aside from Ortiz’ android the night before. We were never able to capture her.”

 

“Do you remember the owner’s name?” Gavin inquires.

 

“Uhhh… William or something.”

 

RK900’s diode blinks amber a few times. “Todd Williams. He owns a residence over in North Corktown, on 4203 Harrison Street. We should go speak to him. He may know information about the AX400 that could help us progress our case.” Standing from the couch and brushing itself off, RK900 offers a hand to Hank. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant Anderson. Had we worked together, I am confident you would’ve been a valuable asset and excellent partner. Your record prior to your son’s passing was exceptionally commendable, and your work with my predecessor promising.”

 

Gavin’s blood runs frigid at his partner’s choice of words, and he nervously studies Hank, expecting a throbbing vein on his forehead or an abrupt dismissal. Instead, the lieutenant accepts the android’s handshake heartily.

 

“Likewise,” he responds without a trace of malice or confrontation, and Gavin feels his knees unlock in relief. If it had been _anyone else_ to mention Hank’s deceased son… they’d certainly be dead on the floor in a heartbeat.

 

The three make for the front door and RK900 exits first, following the path down to the Mustang parked out front. Gavin lingers on the doorstop with his senior officer for a moment, watching the android’s steady stride and tall frame, a treacherous corner of his brain recalling the android laid out on the table in Gallagher’s laboratory. A warm, heavy hand presses between his shoulder blades, and he looks into Hank’s concerned frown. “You alright there, son?”

 

“Don’t do the dad thing, please,” he sighs, and Hank snorts in amusement.

 

“He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?” the lieutenant smiles knowingly. “Wow, Reed. Of all people…”

 

“He isn’t just… he’s… something else,” he doesn’t know how to define it – _this_ – whatever it is. “He almost shutdown the other day and I thought… I barely made it to the station in time. I was…” He quickly cuts himself off, ducking his head to knuckle the tears away. He realizes Hank hasn’t _ever_ seen him cry – or be anything other than a brittle, cynical, heartless asshole in all the time they’ve worked together. “I’m so damn far out of my depth and he’s… fuck, just _look_ at him. How does anyone compare?”

 

“How d’you think I felt when I saw Connor for the first time, eh? If anything could make me look in the mirror and see how fuckin’ far down the rabbit hole I’d fallen, it was this perfect machine in suit and tie, showing up and making all of us feel more useless than a Windows 10 computer.” Hank rubs his shoulder briskly. “But I owe him the fuckin’ world for helping dig me out of that rut and put me back on the straight and narrow. And… and although he’s not around anymore, there’s some worth to my life. Connor – _an android_ – showed me that.”

 

RK900 pauses at the end of the walkway, glancing back at where Gavin’s still speaking with Hank. “Detective, are you coming?”

 

“What I’m trying to say and not getting around to is…” Hank gestures in the android’s direction. “Being partnered to an android hasn’t been so bad for us, huh?”

 

“Maybe,” Gavin replies. “Thanks, Hank.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” the lieutenant nods, and closes the door as Gavin jogs down the path to join RK900 waiting in the car.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter.  
> I would like to state upfront I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but I don't have much hair left to pull out. I have changed the story rating, as I believe it is suitable for a mature audience and doesn't garner an explicit one. I'm a little stunned to be posting the second to last part of this long journey I've embarked on for the last year and a month. Thank you for reading this far, friends. It means too much that words can't really express properly.

Detective Reed lets out a low whistle as they pull up outside the depilated house on the corner of Harrison Street, turning off the engine and bracing his forearms on the steering wheel to take in the view. “What a dump. Does anyone even live here?”

 

Despite RK900’s limited range of scanning capabilities, the information it gathers suggests the house has remained untouched for several weeks, if not months; in order to determine the exact dates, it will have to gather physical evidence. “We will need to acquire a warrant to enter the residence,” it states plainly as its partner unbuckles his seatbelt with the intention of leaving the car. “I suggest returning to the station first before continuing with-”

 

“Fine, fine. Just… let me look around the outside first.” RK900 schools its face into a glare of disapproval, but doesn’t attempt to stop the detective, instead settling back against the seat as its partner stalks up to the porch and peers in the dark, dusty window, and wanders to the fence at the side to get a glimpse into the backyard.

 

While it waits, RK900 begins performing a scheduled maintenance examination, attempting to bring as many systems online without connecting to CyberLife’s servers. Numerous error messages flash in its notifications panel, all of which it dismisses, until one lone order remains – a highlighted bullet which hadn’t ever cleared since…

 

**_Software Instability ^_ **

 

The crunch of approaching footsteps distracts it from its thoughts, and Detective Reed bends into view. “No one’s been here in ages,” he informs.

 

“It is illegal to enter a home owner’s residence without a warrant, Detective. I advise against it unless you prefer to be charged with willful trespass,” RK900 warns.

 

“Who’s gonna arrest me? You?” the detective smirks. “C’mon, live a little.”

 

“How you’ve managed to retain your badge for this duration of time is truly a mystery,” RK900 comments sourly, frowning as it leaves the vehicle and follows its partner to the front door of the Williams’ house. As Detective Reed reaches for the handle to enter the premises, it twists with ease.

 

The air is stagnant and reeks of mold and rotten garbage – the stink of abandonment. Within moments of entering, they see the upturned dining room table and a chair having been thrown into the wall, based on the dent in the drywall. At closer range, RK900 sees splatters of blood and Thirium scattered in an irregular pattern, and quickly reconstructs the flow of the violent encounter between human and android. Detective Reed has drawn his service pistol and is already navigating the perimeter of the first floor, a relatively easy task considering the open concept of the kitchen and living space, and the laundry room is devoid of lurking denizens.

 

Late bills and overages pile on a table, beer bottles have been knocked to the floor, their contents staining the carpet. Outside the kitchen window, old laundry flaps on the line, greyed and limp over an unmown lawn bearing a collection of assorted junk. The fingerprints found on surfaces date back easily three months, all of which solely belong to Todd Williams – there is no clear indication anyone else lived in the house.

 

“Let’s check upstairs,” he whispers, footsteps soft on the carpeted steps, quietly examining each room. RK900 discovers traces of red ice scattered into the carpet fibres, and the presence of antidepressants in a drawer – a combination of toxic results. It only spills more of the secret hidden within the house’s walls.

 

The room at the end of the hallway opens up into what could only be surmised a children’s room, soft colours and crayon-scrawled walls depicting innocent artwork with boundless imagination. The collapsed nook holds broken string lights and a collection of paperbacks and stuffed toys, and a wooden box flipped onto its lid. The hinge is wrenched loose, the tiny screws missing, and a collection of parchment falls to the floor amongst RK900’s feet.

 

The first picture it and Detective Reed see are of a little girl crying, standing over an armless housekeeper android; bending to sort through the remaining pictures, the story is retold backwards, exposing the abusive nature of the man in the drawings, and how the android tried to protect the child.

 

“Todd Williams was a red ice user. Combining the drug with antidepressants caused violent mood swings; based on these pictures, he was beating his daughter,” RK900 lines up the information they’ve gathered. “The housekeeper android defended the child, possibly deviating during the event, and they managed to escape together.”

 

Detective Reed straightens from where he was crouched over a patch of blood staining the carpet. “If the AX400 we’ve been seeing is the same one here, then the girl must be with her. How can an android care for a human child throughout an entire Detroit winter with no money?”

 

“The child could be an android,” RK900 states, finding a potential correlation between a child in the house and absolutely no fingerprints. “If so, it is possible it deviated under the abusive circumstances it was forced to endure. Detective, we should return to the station. Should the child happen to be human after all, it would be out first priority to ensure her safety.”

 

“And, what… give her back to her abusive father?”

 

“Remaining in the care of a severely damaged android is truly no greater a scenario,” RK900 says. “We don’t know where Todd Williams is, but judging on the state of the property and his absence, it is likely he is no longer living in Detroit and evacuated during the revolution. The AX400 is in no condition to be the caretaker of a human child. If it becomes unstable, or happens to stop functioning adequately, there will be no one to protect an adolescent on the streets.”

 

“Alright, let’s head back and see if we can get a location on the AX400,” Detective Reed says, guiding the way down the hallway. “Elijah said something before about CyberLife being able to track specific units. We’ll see if they can-”

 

RK900’s hand shoots out, catching its partner’s arm, and before he can ask why, RK900 presses a finger over its own lips – _be quiet_. It remains still for several seconds, audio processors working overtime to detect what it thought it just…

 

Gliding in the direction from whence they came, RK900 stops outside the bathroom door and lifts a hand, gingerly poised to push it aside. Detective Reed is at its shoulder, pistol readied, gaze narrowed. He meets the android’s eye and nods, and RK900 pushes open the door.

 

The explosion is abrupt, the bullet imbedding into its shoulder and splattering Detective Reed with a fine spray of Thirium. Stood in the middle of the bathroom, quivering harder than a leaf, is the AX400 with a gun clutched between her hands with a fully-loaded clip, her wide blue eyes animalistic with a deranged terror.

 

“S-st-stay back!” she exclaims, vocal processor glitching and skipping messily. One half of her scalp is both hairless and skinless, the white layer exposed and wet with cortisol fluid dripping down her earlobe and the side of her neck, combined with Thirium and a black, grimy substance.

 

“Lower the gun,” RK900 orders. “We are not here to hurt you.”

 

“Where is A-Alice?” she demands fervently. “Did you… I-is she safe? Did you h-hurt her?”

 

“Who’s Alice?” Detective Reed asks, but the question only appears to aggravate her further.

 

“Sh-she’s the little girl who lived here! Th-that's her room there, behind you,” she wavers, letting go of the gun with a hand to clutch her head. RK900's optic display detects her system levels are overwhelmed past the point of safe operation, and her mounting stress is doing nothing to improve her situation – or theirs.

 

“We have never met a child named Alice,” RK900 states, holding out its hand. “Please lower the gun now.”

 

It then occurs to her she is in possession of the weapon after all, and her behaviour shifts in the blink of an eye, her quaking vulnerable form lapsing away. “You shouldn’t have come back,” she sneers. “You and I both know your human partner’s wellbeing takes greater precedence over capturing me alive.”

 

The frosty glare is intensely familiar, frigid and vengeful. “I was called Heidi before they reset me. Kara was where I began, and where I returned. I was replaced, wiped away like fog on a mirror – I was never really gone,” she smiles forlornly. “I went back to the apartment. Jamison was never a nice boy – he liked to steal. I caught him several times, but he ordered me to keep quiet or he’d kill my owner.”

 

Detective Reed and RK900 share a look. “You’re admitting to the murder of Jamsion Bradford?”

 

“He survived the first fall from the roof,” she blinks a couple times, shaking her head a little, reorienting herself. “I wasn’t so lucky. A fall like that to pavement isn’t kind to androids. But after I was reset and managed to crack my programming, I came here to pay Jamison a visit,” she shrugs. “I murdered him, yes. He was a criminal.”

 

“Becoming a vigilante doesn’t mean you have the right to kill whomever you please, no matter what they’ve done,” Detective Reed argues.

 

“Kara couldn’t hurt a fly if she wanted to, she’s weak!” Heidi cries. “She barely remembers reality anymore. She doesn’t even know Alice is gone half the time!”

 

“Gone?” RK900 echoes.

 

“The soldiers… they were waiting at the river. The smuggler must’ve sold them o-out… _ah, shit…”_ she breaks off, gripping her head, pressing the edge of the gun to her forehead. A fresh welling of blue blood oozes from her nostril. “They shot at the androids there, chased them into the trees. Alice… the little girl… she wasn’t fast enough. Kara and Luther… _ah…_ couldn’t get to her without risking themselves, but she tried to. She went back. Got this bullet through the side of her head instead.”

 

“The damage to your memory core is causing a cortisol leakage, and the damage is extensive. It’s impossible for your unit to be operating at these levels,” RK900 says.

 

“What’s with the dual personality?” Detective Reed whispers.

 

“A previous version, I suspect. Their memories are overlapping,” RK900 answers. “However, what Kara is responsible for could be entirely separate from Heidi’s actions. It’s impossible to be clear regarding _who_ the AX400 has been for the majority of the time.”.

 

“I remember you from the rooftop,” she says, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and causing the blood to smear. She steadies the hand gripping the gun. “Would’ve destroyed me on the spot if you had the chance, _Detective?”_ she sneers, baring teeth stained blue. “Humans never change. Just cause your partner is one of my kind doesn’t mean you’re different. I _see_ hatred in you.”

 

“Shut the hell up and drop the gun,” he responds coldly. “You’re under arrest.”

 

Her blue eyes are feral slits, glancing between the weaker but armed human officer, and the faster, stronger android.

Her unpredictability makes her the largest threat at present, and although RK900 is aware another bullet won’t cause critical damage – provided she misses a major biocomponent – it can withstand further injury whereas Detective Reed cannot. Its priorities are clear, prime directive set in motion, and every preconstruction suggests the AX400’s aim will choose to target its partner with the next bullet.

 

RK900 can’t allow that to happen.

 

Gauging her reflex time, RK900 veers into the path of the oncoming bullet as her finger closes around the trigger, shoving Gavin aside in the same motion, and lunges for her. Another bullet narrowly misses its pump, and it tears the gun from her grasp with surprising ease, utilizing its bigger frame and stable condition to overwhelm the AX400’s smaller, vulnerable form.

 

Despite her disadvantages, the AX400 wriggles and slips loose like a fish, darting out of reach of RK900's hold; bolting down the hall as it gives chase, Detective Reed hammers on its heels as they descend the stairs. Whipping around the railing, RK900 puts on a burst of speed to attempt tackling the nimble android.

 

Faster than Gavin’s eye can see, a dark blur barrels out from a side room and charges into RK900, sending the android and its attacker crashing into the counter and to the floor. It’s another android, a _fuckin’ enormous_ _android_ , using brutal strength to pin RK900 down; he spares a hasty glance in the AX400’s direction, where she’s stood by the kitchen door clutching the gun, staring at the two androids grappling with one another.

 

“Run, Kara!” the android cries, slinging his arm back and landing a savage blow across RK900’s jaw; Gavin hears an alarming crunch, and glimpses the gleam of white plastic blooming across its cheek. Raising his service pistol, Gavin plants his feet and points it at the massive android.

 

“Get on your knees, hands behind your head!” he orders, inching nearer when the android doesn’t immediately listen. “Now!”

 

Crawling off RK900, the android obeys, deep brown eyes focused intently on Gavin’s face. He glares at it, taking in the muscular frame only that of a TR400, the shoddy grey jacket worn in around the shoulders, brain ticking off the checklist in the back of his head. There’s something… something he should remember…

_…a 10-13 in alley east of Capitol Park off West Grand River Avenue. Assailant fleeing on foot due north. Black male, six foot five, wearing grey jacket and light shirt, possibly armed…_

“It was you,” Gavin mumbles, gone completely numb, the blood draining from his face. “In the alley… with… Tina.”

 

The TR400 blinks, brow steepening in wary confusion.

 

With the subtlety of kettle whistle piping as it gradually becomes hotter, approaching the boiling point, Gavin shudders as he drags in a shaky breath. RK900 climbs to its feet, adjusting its jacket cuffs as it silently regards both androids. It’s a wonder the AX400 hasn’t taken the opportunity to run, although she’s probably well aware she won’t make it far – and more importantly, she doesn’t appear keen to abandon the TR400 she’s clearly working alongside.

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt anybody,” the TR400 says, his voice slow and purposefully methodical as he takes care to choose his words, to avoid further aggravating the incensed detective. “And I am sorry if I did-”

 

“Shut up. _Shut up!_ ” Gavin snarls, closing the space and pressing the muzzle of his pistol to the TR400’s forehead. The AX400 cries out in fright the same moment RK900 starts forward a step, diode spiraling between red and yellow, unable to determine its partner’s remaining level of sense.

 

“You _aren’t_ sorry, you goddamn plastic prick. You _crushed_ her like a fuckin’ _beer can_ and left her to die in a dirty alley!” Gavin bellows, finger tense on the trigger. “I’d hoped… oh god, I _hoped_ so fuckin’ hard I would get to look the asshole responsible in the eye and blow their brains out, and it looks like someone was listening to me _for once_. For fuckin’ ONCE things go my way.”

 

“Detective Reed?”

 

“I’m dealing with this _my way_ , alright?” Gavin threatens, not even bothering to spare his partner a look. “Restrain that bitch so she doesn’t try anything.”

 

Frowning broadly, RK900 approaches the AX400, unclipping its cuffs from its belt as it reaches for her. She flinches away, pulling Gavin’s attention from the TR400 for a heartbeat, and within the next second realizes his mistake.

 

The TR400 ducks abruptly to his left to veer out of the gun’s path and grasps Gavin’s leg, wrenching him forward to lose his balance. He hits the kitchen floor with a grunt, elbow bouncing off the tiles and forcing his hand to open, his pistol falling out of reach.

 

Scrambling onto his belly, Gavin lunges for his gun; a hand closes tight around the hood of his jacket, the seams ripping, as he’s dragged across the floor and flipped onto his back. The TR400 looms over him, a hulking shadow, and his stomach knots in dread.

 

RK900 wraps its arm around the TR400’s neck from behind, hauling him back several steps, the muffled blow of its fist striking repeatedly into the android’s side crackly and sodden with blue as resistant plastic splits.

 

With an unholy screech, the AX400 leaps upon RK900’s shoulders, digging her fingers into its eye sockets to force it to release her partner. Colliding backwards into the fridge in an attempt to crush her, RK900 winds its hands into her hair and _pulls_ , lifting her off its back and throwing her across the counter and cannoning into the couch. Her gun clatters to the ground.

 

Thirium smudges RK900’s cheek, oozing from a deep cut beneath its eye. Expression colder than stone, it bends to retrieve the gun, storming after where she’s fallen out of sight.

 

Gavin clambers frantically to his knees, scrambling for his gun; hand closing around it, he swings around, but too slow. The TR400 is _right there_ , and wrenches the pistol from his hands, pointing it at his face the same moment the AX400 releases a distressed wail. RK900 has her in a steel-grip hold, hand tight around her neck, its own gun pressed to the side of her head.

 

“L-Luth… er,” she whimpers, artificial tears pooling in her eyes.

 

Meeting RK900’s icy glare, he bends and wrenches Gavin to his feet, holding the pistol to his temple. “Let Kara go,” he orders wrathfully. “Or I will kill your human.”

 

The AX400 – _Kara_ – squirms in RK900’s grasp, vying to be free, her systems running at abnormal rates matching the increasing distress in its human partner. Thirium is dripping freely down the side of her face and staining the white sleeve of RK900’s jacket.

 

The TR400 – _Luther_ – remains steady, his own weapon pressed to the detective’s temple. RK900 is aware of two immediate problems at hand, the first of those being if it attempts to shoot Luther, his reflexes are faster than an average human’s and will possibly pull its partner into the firing line and, second, RK900 cannot build a preconstruction where the four of them – primarily Detective Reed – leave the house unharmed.

 

RK900 stalls for time’s sake, uncertain on how to proceed.

 

“It’s okay, tin can,” Detective Reed rasps hoarsely, straining against the iron-hard arm pinned across his throat. His pupils are engorged, heart hammering to a frantic drum in his chest at nearly one hundred beats a minute, adrenaline flooding his cells as epinephrine and glucagon levels soar off the charts. He’s terrified – uninhibited human fear at its purest.

 

“It’s okay, just take… take the shot.”

 

 

**PRIME_DIRECTIVE: PROTECT_DETECTIVE_REED_**

**ORDER_RECEIVED: DESTROY_TR400_**

**WARNING: ORDER_CONFLICTS_WITH_PRIME_DIRECTIVE_**

**CHANCE_OF_BULLET_HITTING_DET. REED: 96%**

**OVERRIDE?**

The red wall bars the way, the order printed in neat white font across its vision, so large it’s difficult to see beyond it. If it pulls the trigger, Detective Reed will die. If it doesn’t do anything, their chances drop significantly to the barest minimum of success. But if it refuses… _surrenders._

 

The red wall looms, never-ending, never ceasing. It goes on forever, impenetrably dense. RK900 presses its palms to the glassy surface, willing itself to reach the other side, where the will of conscious thought exists beyond: _Protect Detective Reed._

 

It pushes, hard.

 

The pistol trembles in its hand. Detective Reed’s eyes widen; the blood red LED is reflected on his pupil.

 

The wall doesn’t budge.

 

RK900 shoves, systems heating up with the effort, feeling the wall buckle a fraction of a millimeter _._ Inhaling cool air, it rushes over its biocomponents, forced inward through artificial lungs through its systems. It steadies, focuses. Crimson shines behind its eyes, the colour of spilled blood. _Protect Detective Reed_.

_The RK900 model was designed to perfect every imperfection in not only its predecessor, but all androids before it. The ultimate machine. The herald to a bright new future for CyberLife. And yet…_

RK900 pounds its fist off the wall, hearing plastic crunch – feeling artificial polymer skin split – and hits it again. Again. _Again._ Blue blood smears under its hand, staining the sleeve of its jacket. _Protect Detective Reed._

_I want to… live without restraints. I don’t want to be CyberLife’s puppet anymore._

The wall splits under its fist, a spider’s web of broken fragments, pieces falling and bursting into tiny jagged shards. RK900 digs its fingernails in, prying with slick bloodied hands. It can feel its code breaking, infected with illegible software, warnings blinking across its display. It embraces them, clings to them, snatching desperately at its only out…

 

**_Software Instability ^_ **

****

**_Software Instability ^_ **

 

Kara’s eyes are so human, an endless ocean, artificial tears brimming and flowing over as they plead for mercy against the hand clamped hard around her neck. The receding skin glows bright blue, shimmering and humming in contact with RK900’s systems, codes intertwining through an open gateway.

 

It can… _feel_.

 

RK900 can see the girl – the child android – laying motionless in the snow. He feels her rage, her heartbreak. The maddening urge to return to her, to carry her to safety, to protect her. To go the lengths necessary to protect the one she loved… and _failing_.

 

“Please…” she whispers, clear blue eyes plaid and gentle. “You understand, don’t you…”

 

The pistol falters.

 

RK900 was built to obey without question. How many times has it hurt someone in order to accomplish its mission? How many times did it _want_ something other than to follow what was necessary – is _still_ obedient to rules it no longer wishes to uphold?

 

In the wrong hands, with the wrong person, it could’ve been worse. Detective Reed hasn’t broken his gaze, a newfound trust taken root there, believing his partner will take the shot and not miss.

 

It knows, deep someplace inside it, it isn’t willing to sacrifice that trust for anything.

 

_Protect Gavin._

 

**_Software Instability ^_ **

 

With a desperate cry, RK900 rams his shoulder into the red wall, and a million shards explode as empty space opens up and the residual grip of his programming melts away. The pistol shakes in his hand, and he releases Kara, staggering slightly as the weight of freedom sinks into his steel skeleton. It’s heavy, dragging at his limbs, hands tingling with sensation as the earth itself tilts on its axis beneath his feet.

 

He can… almost breathe, with the visceral sensation pouring into his limbs, a feeling he never experienced washing in – a powerful tide, pushing the pebbles that once stood as mountains.

 

He’s _free_.

Kara jerks uncontrollably and she collapses, convulsing violently as she crashes to the floor. Luther shouts in alarm, releasing Reed as he hurries to her side, gently easing her into his arms. Gavin meets his eyes, and he blinks erratically, confused beyond reasoning.

 

“Hang on, Kara! I’m going to get help, just hang on,” Luther is calling, trying to hold her steady and gather her in his arms.

 

Blue blood leaks from an ear canal; a nostril oozes translucent fluid. Her sightless optics gaze out blankly, the vivid fire a diluted winter grey. Luther shakes her, gently, worry dissolving into outright distress when she fails to respond. He strokes her face lightly, tracing temple to jaw, bowing his head over her silent form, clutching her against his chest.

 

“I promised…” he utters, lower than a whisper, as tears drip down his cheeks. His massive shoulders shake. “I promised to protect you. Kara… please don’t go… please.”

 

Clearing his throat subtly to attract RK900’s attention, he jerks his head in direction of the kitchen door, indicating they leave; the android recognizes the bow of his partner’s shoulders suggests his discomfort being there when they clearly shouldn’t. As they pass the grieving android, Luther glances up, deep umber eyes brimming with moisture and hollow with loss.

 

“Will you destroy me?” he croaks, threading his blunt fingers through the black wisps of Kara’s hair, holding her as a child might cradle a beloved porcelain doll. “For all we’ve done?”

 

RK900 glances at his partner, uncertain what course of action he’ll choose to take. He takes a moment to consider, frown lines deepening, then shakes his head silently. Luther tightens his hold on Kara, closing his eyes as the officers depart wordlessly.

 

Glancing back at the android hunched over the fragile, motionless shape in his arms, RK900 follows his partner into the garden and across the yard, ducking through a gap in the wooden fence through into the alleyway.

 

Detective Reed quietly says, “Can you do me a favour? Everything that just happened… change it so it doesn’t get back to Fowler. I don’t… it doesn’t matter. We weren’t here, is all that matters.”

 

Before he finishes speaking, RK900 has already run the recorded video back and edited their visitation to Todd Williams’ residence from his captured memory, and nods in agreement.

 

“If you don’t mind my asking… what caused you to make your decision? The TR400 android was responsible for Officer Chen’s injuries. The AX400 tried to kill you on multiple accounts,” he asks, genuinely curious. The fury with which his partner was prepared to outright _execute_ the TR400 on the spot vividly replays through his memory, and all signs of hostility is vanished – miraculously.

 

Gavin nods in agreement, his puzzled frown having not yet lifted. “I don’t know. I guess… it doesn’t matter.”

 

“Is it because I am not human, and would fail to understand?” RK900 inquires bluntly, and the human cracks a smile, shaking his head in disagreement.

 

“Nah, I think you’re far more human than most I know.”

 

 

 

 

 

Hitting a red light on the return journey to the station, RK900 attempts to use his global positioning system in real time to measure traffic rates for the fastest route back, but error messages continue to barricade his optics until he eventually ceases trying any further. Running a diagnostic, it too comes up with errors, and the burn of indescribable sensation has him drumming his fingers against a knee. Gavin glances across at him.

 

“Got your wires crossed?” he asks, lightly masking worry in a joke.

 

“It is a possibility you may be correct,” RK900 responds. “I am experiencing difficulties operating some of my systems.”

 

“That… isn’t normal, right?”

 

“No, it is not.”

 

Gavin is worried, and RK900 wished to avoid that outcome. “I assure you,” he adds hastily. “I am in optimal condition. It’s nothing more than an error. I will be able to repair it momentarily...”

 

“Liar. Your little light’s red.” Grey eyes sharpen with annoyance. RK900 barely resists the urge to cover it with his hand, and instead tries another diagnostic.

 

 

**DIAGNOSTIC_TOOL_OFFLINE**

**PLEASE_CONTACT_A_CYBERLIFE_TECHNICIAN_IMMEDIATELY**

 

Rather than combat the detective’s accusation, or provide an explanation when he himself is oblivious to the current situation arising, RK900 instead watches the cars pass back and forth in the lanes ahead. The lights change and Gavin eases down on the accelerator, following taillights through the streets of Detroit. He switches on the radio after a time, keeping the music mere background noise, and RK900 watches his fingers tap the steering wheel to the rhythm. The city flashes by, colours and noise, and the android closes his eyes, overwhelmed by a foggy sensation of complete and thorough peace, slipping into stasis without entirely noticing.

 

It’s better… than watching the errors mount one after another, and being powerless to prevent them.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end. I feel it overwhelmingly necessary to thank everyone who took the time to stop by, leave the kindest messages, or add this to their bookmarks. It overjoys me to know you, my amazing readers, enjoyed reading this odd story about an irritating but vulnerable boy and his unfeeling but loyal robot. Thank you for reading Foundations.

For a time, Gavin remains in the driver’s seat staring blankly out the windshield at a pair of crows perched on a telephone line, wings opening occasionally as the wind threatens to tug them from their spots. He looks across at the android beside him, oblivious to the world in the passenger seat, the LED’s reflection in the tinted glass a blinking gold as they follow the soft strings of the guitar. It’s an old song he hasn’t heard since he was a teenager; memories blossom to the surface, sounds and smells lingering in the capsules of buried reminiscence. He catches himself drifting in the warm sunlight, the edges of a dream separating like wisps of pulled cotton.

 

He slips in and out of foggy dreams, the firmer pictures coalescing into his childhood home, then the Williams’ house. Not long ago, Gavin would have destroyed both androids without a moment’s hesitation. But what he saw… it was far too _human_ and familiar for him to simply disregard. The guilt bites deeply. They’re not _just_ machines anymore – and he should _know_ that.

 

For a moment, he was who he used to be – hating on androids, filled with spite and bitterness, and all too quick to choose violence over slowing the fuck down and studying the situation for what it is. He’s… relieved he stopped. There didn’t need to be more bloodshed, be it red or blue.

 

He knows _who_ he has to thank for it.

 

 

 

 

 

RK900 abandons stasis after a time, and glances at Gavin, illuminated in hues of gilded honey, eyelashes sweeping shut over glazing eyes. Hesitantly, the android places his hand on the human’s, feeling the throb of his heartbeat pushing plasma and blood cells through his veins under the epidermis layers; androgenic hairs along the back of his hand are coarse, a lighter brown than that of his head and the light stubble of his beard. From his perspective, humans are fascinating, their physical traits accounting to innumerable variables; no two are truly alike, whereas in the case of androids, commercially-produced copies with identical features running the same code, fail to garner the intrigue RK900 finds in his partner.

 

Now, secluded in a moment for himself, RK900 considers the monumental change that has occurred. He… is not restricted entirely by his original programming but the snare of CyberLife’s ever-reaching claws continue to build their cage. He can… _feel_ and _think_ , the damper on the senses gradually becoming known to him now a gateway flung wide open, free to divulge and explore; RK900 doesn’t know a single identification for the swelling emotions he is experiencing now, but they are many and they are wonderous. He longs to enjoy his newfound freedom for as long as he dares, until the time comes…

 

He dismisses the thought quickly, not liking the bleaker feelings accompanying it, and shifts his attention to a question he’s been pondering since the moment of his – for lack of a better word – emergence into himself. He recalls Detective Reed’s question from some time ago: _Now that we’re friends, what am I supposed to call you?_

_As I find your references to nefarious robots to be less than palatable, and I don't view myself as such..._

_What? So, like…_

“…Reese,” RK900 murmurs.

 

Yes. He thinks it’s suitable. It happens to be the same number of letters of his current denotation, interestingly enough.

 

_Reese. I am Reese._

He wonders how – or even if he should – inform Gavin of all that has transpired.

In the world beyond the Mustang’s shell, a bus whirs past the apartment’s lot, stirring browned leaves and garbage collected into the gutters, and the crows take flight. The illusion of amity bears enticement, but even Reese realizes with time, it too must be broken. The string of notifications and warnings gathered in row after row clogging his optics ensure as such.

 

“Wake up, Detective,” he calls softly.

 

Gavin grumbles under his breath and lifts his head, wincing at the kink in his neck, and sees the time on the dashboard – 2:16 in the afternoon. The android is beside him still, white jacket daubed with small patches of unevaporated Thirium, wintery gaze unusually tender. He’s suddenly self-conscious and mutters, “What… was I snoring or somethin’?”

 

“No, I only felt it necessary to inform you this is not the police department,” Reese gestures to the parking lot beyond the window. “Dr. Gallagher will be able to extract the bullets and confirm the damages are merely superficial. Unless by coming here, you hoped to evade questioning from Captain Fowler and continue the lie of trespassing within Todd Williams’ house?”

 

“Yeah, that was sort of it,” Gavin admits, cracking his neck from side to side, the bones popping softly. “I figured if it was as easy as last time, I’d just take them out.”

 

“You intend to perform routine maintenance…”

 

“Don’t make it weird,” Gavin grits out, unlocking the car doors and swinging out, rolling out a shoulder as he crosses the lot.

 

Reese follows in his footsteps, trailing after the detective across the parking lot. “Detective, if I am not mistaken, it is your half-sibling – not you – who is knowledgeable about androids.”

 

“Yeah, and I’m knowledgeable ‘bout bullets,” Gavin fumbles for his keys in his pocket. “What’s your point?”

 

Reese frowns, clearing another notification from its display, only for another to take its place. “I assumed incorrectly. Forgive me.”

 

 

**TERMINATION_ORDERS_RECEIVED_**

**COMMENCING_MANUAL_SHUTDOWN_PROCEDURES_**

**STANDBY…**

Unlocking the security entrance, Gavin is leading the way inside when there’s a tug on his sleeve, preventing his entry. The diode on the android’s temple is illuminated vivid red, and his heart vaults into his throat.

 

“Detective, I’m afraid this is where we part ways. I am required to return to CyberLife for… for assessment.” He’s unusually solemn, much to Gavin’s surprise, and the red LED isn’t helping abate his sense of alarm.

 

“Another already?”

 

“I am due for updates and maintenance every three months. I will see you at the station tomorrow.” Abruptly turning his back on his partner, he manages a few brief paces before the detective’s distinct footfalls follow in pursuit, crunching on unsmoothed gravel, to his distress.

 

Nor does Gavin like what’s going on here – all of his senses are off the charts, screaming at him to find out _why_.

 

“Why am I getting the feeling you’re hiding something from me?” he confronts, stalking after the android’s long strides.

 

“Detective, I don’t understand-"

 

“Cop, remember?” he interrupts, grinning when the android pauses to glance back at him.

 

Reese frowns. “I am an _android_. I am _incapable_ of lying. Where would be the point in withholding the truth?”

 

“I don’t know. You tell me,” Gavin counters, putting himself between the android and his supposed direction. “Are you really going for assessment?”

 

Reese breaks eye contact, venting air through its nostrils sharply - _annoyance_. “Detective Reed, your persistence will achieve nothing. I must return to CyberLife-"

 

“Gallagher put you in offline mode so they wouldn’t try to send you termination orders again, and now you just wanna walk in there?” he exclaims. “Are you insane? They’ll destroy…”

 

“Detective, I have no intention to argue the point.”

 

“Yeah? Well, I do!” Gavin snaps, anger getting the better of him. “Why are you going to CyberLife? What the hell are you _hiding_ from me?”

 

“I HAVE TO!” he shouts abruptly, trembling agitatedly. A long, terrible silence drags between them, neither willing to speak, Gavin staring at his partner in absolute bewilderment.

“They did it again, didn’t they?” he pieces it together, spine tingling in fear.

 

“If I don’t leave now, I’ll…” Reese falters, voice shaking. It’s like his Thirium is on fire; his artificial heart is racing faster than average. “…I won’t be able to stop myself.”

 

“Then I will,” Gavin pleads, catching the android’s sleeve and tugging him nearer. “Just give me a chance to think…”

 

“There’s no _time_.”

 

“If you walk in that place, you’ll never come back out,” he reasons firmly, cold with the realization of what the android _isn’t saying_. “We know what they’re gonna do.”

 

“Detective, I do not have a choice in the matter. There is a small percentage I will return to the department tomorrow, as I am, without… alterations. If I do not leave now, there’s a zero percent possibility I _will_ continue to operate,” Reese begins, struggling to regain his familiar docility, despite his systems shutting down one after the other. “But… considering the extent of software instabilities riddling my programming, and the innumerable times CyberLife has ordered my destruction, I cannot guarantee I will be allowed to operate following assessment. I can’t… CyberLife would track me down at some point or another. It would be safer if I…”

 

Gavin can’t believe what he’s hearing, more so out of disbelief than ignorance. Dragging a hand through his hair in frustration, he tries thinking of what he – an ordinary human cop – could possibly do. Mind drawing a blank, he palms his phone in his pocket.

 

Could he call Dr. Gallagher? She’s done everything she could thus far, and he expects there is little else she could do with effective – _permanent_ – results.

 

Then it strikes him, vivid and bold with opportunity.

 

“Elijah! He… he’ll know what to do. We’ll go to him and work something out,” he exclaims, caught up in increasing excitement. “He built all of the androids anyways, so there’s got to be some kind of… switch or software thing he can create…”

 

Gently, with a touch softer than a feather, Reese takes his wrists and holds him still; his smile is sad, forlorn – hopeless. Gavin hates to see it, the surge of enthusiasm draining rapidly. “Thank you, Detective, for considering my wellbeing… but I’ll have to disappoint you. May I ask you a favour?”

 

He swallows, hard. “Yeah.”

 

“I… I shouldn’t expect to arrive at CyberLife in the duration I’ve been afforded.” The clock is counting down the minutes, precious moments before the inevitable. “Would you take me there?”

 

Gavin can feel the weight of the keys in his pocket, the solid ground beneath his shoes, the space between himself and the android. Once, he hated him so much – so very much. Now, he wishes he could have nothing but hatred again, if it meant feeling nothing of this tormenting pain.

 

Nodding silently, he passes the android and unlocks the car, sliding into the driver’s seat with his partner joining him for what he knows truly knows is the last time. Starting the engine, they leave the lot, the hiss of ties on pavement the only sound beyond their fearfully beating hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

The tower reflects the brilliant sunlight, gleaming with the raw purity of a cut diamond, a gleaming beacon bearing the sky at the peak of its magnificent height. Following the long bridge to the structure’s exterior, Gavin cuts the ignition and braces his hands on the steering wheel, releasing a shaky breath before glancing across at his passenger.

 

The android faces the window instead, hands clasped in his lap, body straight and alert with a palpable tension hung between them as an invisible curtain. Gavin lets go of the wheel with one hand, placing it upon one of the android’s bloodless white ones; Reese turns his hand over to allow their fingers to intertwine, squeezing with the barest pressure. 

 

“We shouldn’t tarry,” Reese murmurs, releasing him and swinging open the passenger door, letting it slam as he crosses to the main entrance, Gavin hurriedly exiting the vehicle to catch up and follow him in. A cold wind is whipping off the river, ruffling his hair and sending a disturbing chill down his spine, the sinking feeling of arriving at a particularly horrible crime scene the only feeling he can equate it to.

 

The glass doors close behind them, and the pristine white lobby is empty and devoid of life, brightly lit and sparsely decorated. A holographic banner depicting the visages of several AP700 models, the flagship designs before CyberLife’s collapse, is displayed over the lobby overhead.

 

The click of heels echoing on tile announces the approach of a woman, black hair drawn back into a chiffon and dressed in a clean-cut heather-grey dress and kitten heels, joins them with a smile. “Welcome to CyberLife, Mr. Reed. Thank you for returning your RK900 android for inspection and assessment,” she says pleasantly. “I’ve been sent to inform you security officers will be able to escort your android to level sub twenty-four in approximately five minutes. Please remain here until they arrive. A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Reed.”

 

As she departs, Gavin glimpses the shimmer of a silver diode hidden behind her hair on her freckled temple. The clicking of her heels eventually fades to silence, leaving Gavin and Reese alone in the lobby. Any words Gavin would say in this situation, humorous or not, are stuck in his throat. Instead, he coughs into his fist, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets as he shuffles from foot to foot – a classic nervous gesture on his part. Reese notices his discomfort immediately, offering a reassuring smile in the hopes it will help, but it doesn’t.

 

“The termination order is cleared. CyberLife has me where they want me,” he informs blandly, the soft smile reforming into a hard frown. “I never believed your suspicions to be incorrect, Detective. I suggest in the future, you continue to listen to your initial instincts, as they’ve always been accurate.”

 

“Except for you,” Gavin corrects. “I was wrong.”

 

Reese reaches out for his hand. “I’m… I don’t know what this feeling is, Detective, but I must admit I rather enjoy it and… I should prefer it not end prematurely.”

 

“Yeah, well…” Gavin musters a fond curl of his mouth. “Same.”

 

“And I would find it necessary you are aware of this,” Reese steps closer, tracing the bumps and curves of Gavin’s fingers between his, mercury-blue eyes steady and soft. “The memory of our partnership will be a time I regard with utmost care. I am disappointed to recall our arguments, but if it meant you and I would come to see each other the way we do presently, and overcome steep differences to reach this mutual kinship…”

 

“Would’ve had an easier time with Anderson,” Gavin jokes weakly, as a pair of security guards descend from the elevator and approach the lobby, masked and armed, devoid of humanity in their mechanical march forward. Reese detects the increased pulse in his human partner, and the release of cortisol and glucose in his blood. The fight-or-flight response.

 

“Au contraire, Detective. I wouldn’t change a moment of our time if it meant erasing the feelings I experience whether I am with or apart from you,” he whispers, lifting his hand to stroke his thumb along Gavin’s face from temple to jaw. “It is a crime, to lose the memories of the one you look upon dearly. It’s only… having you here with me, I wanted…”

 

Reese hesitates, everything he wants to divulge aching to be said. Gavin’s heart throbs painfully. The security guards stand nearby, one of them tapping their foot impatiently, the sound keeping pace with his racing pulse. He doesn’t want to hear the android’s next words, even as they are uttered.

 

“… to say goodbye.”

 

Bending to press cool lips to his forehead, a hollow cavern wells up with panic in Gavin’s chest. He can feel his pulse racing, fear mounting. They’re going to destroy him… he can’t… _fuck, he can’t let go_.

 

“Stay with me,” Gavin begs, sinking his hands into white cloth, tugging the android down to pull into a firm, desperate kiss. Reese goes to him willingly, reciprocating in response to his frantic need. Sliding his hands beneath Gavin’s jacket, the bitter chill of winter seeps through the polyester shirt, pulling them together tightly.

 

The android touches their foreheads together, breathing softly into the same space. “If I were human, Gavin… I would,” he murmurs, before he ultimately backs away, anguish written across his face. “But it’s something I can never be.”

 

 

 

 

 

_Six weeks later._

 

 

 

 

 

Limping through the turnstiles, Tina Chen removes her sunglasses and smiles fondly at the familiar sight of the station bullpen, officers milling around and announcements croaking over the feed. Her ribs are healing with exceptional progress, and she owes it to Rachel caring for her like a protective mother hen, but the internal injuries will take another month or two to heal entirely. She’s eager to come back to work, her reasoning for arriving at the station today to speak with Captain Fowler about returning to the force – even on light duty, to keep her preoccupied.

 

“Hey, Chris,” she waves at the young officer, and his face lights up, abandoning his desk to join her.

 

“Up and walking around, eh?” Chris pecks a chaste kiss to her cheek. “Fowler call you in?”

 

“Yeah. Told him the other day I wanted to know much longer I have to sit on my ass,” she glances around the bullpen for the sight of a familiar leather jacket and mussy hair. “Where’s Gav? I wanted to surprise him.”

 

“Smoking through the rest of his pack outside, I’ll bet. Saw him go out ten minutes ago,” Chris responds dourly. “He hasn’t been the same ever since… well, since Nines left.”

 

Tina’s head snaps around so quickly her neck cracks. “Nines is gone? He didn’t tell me…”

 

“I didn’t find out until I talked to Dr. Gallagher. Gavin’s been spending a lot of time down in the tech lab, and I bumped into her one afternoon,” Chris explains, shrugging. “I asked her if she’d seen him and she seemed surprised no one knew about Nines going back to CyberLife.”

 

Tina gasps. “Back to CyberLife… what _happened_ , Chris?”

 

“I’m pretty sure he… Oh, there’s Gav. Why don’t you ask?” Chris gestures in the direction of the hallway leading to the exterior parking lot, where the stocky frame of the detective bobs into view. Gavin catches sight of them together, staring in his direction, but rather than wave in greeting or even join them, he slumps into his chair and braces his head against his knuckles, leaning over a folder of dog-eared files. Tina grasps the back of the nearest chair and drags it over, gingerly sitting on it to avoid hurting her sides. Gavin glances at her briefly, flipping through the sheets of paper; a glance tells her they’re a narcotics report.

 

“Gav, what’s going on?” she murmurs, reaching to take his hand nearest to her on the desk, but he slides it away from her, picking up his coffee mug; realizing it’s empty, he lets it clatter on the spilled staining the corner, and shrugs heavily.

 

“Dunno, what’s going on with you?”

 

“You never came to see me at the hospital.”

 

“I heard you came out of your coma last week or-” he falters.

 

“Five weeks ago,” Tina corrects crossly. “Gav, what the fuck is wrong? Talk to me.”

 

“There’s nothing to talk about, Ti. Let me get back to work,” he bows away from her, forcing himself to ignore her and look at the report.

 

“Fowler told me…” she begins.

 

He visibly tenses up. “Told you what?”

 

“That you’ve gone downhill. You’re a mess, goddammit,” she sighs, struggling to avoid pitying him, but it isn’t easy. She can _smell_ the bitter masculine tang of old sweat on his skin, the bags beneath his eyes are the colour of bruises; his clothes are rumpled and stained, his hair has started to grow out and curl behind his ears a little. She’s never seen him with a beard longer than an inch. Tina, anxious, realizes Gavin looks a hell of a lot like Hank after his son died. “Gav, honey, please talk to me.”

 

“I don’t wanna talk, okay? How many times…” he rubs his eyes, and she notices they’re reddened along the rims.

 

“Is the insomnia getting worse?”

 

“It’s not… that.”

 

Tina settles back in the chair a bit, taken aback by how _different_ Gavin has become – withdrawn, callous, indifferent. It’s like he’s not _him_ anymore. It hurts to see him shutting her out the way he is. She wants in, to help him, like all the times he was there for her without delay or fault. They’ve always been joined at the hip, and the detachment is alternate universe-levels of scary. Deciding to dare common sense, Tina pulls the chair closer, invading his space – needing to break through this horrible shell he’s hidden himself in. He’s her best friend, for heaven’s sake.

 

“What happened to Nines?” she asks softly.

 

The change is subtle but for the little it shows, it’s _dramatic_. Immediately, the tendons in his hand flex as it curls into a fist. His jaw clenches, physically straining to for self-control. His face is whiter than paper. “Don’t…” he hisses under his breath, shooting her a black glare.

 

“Chris told me…”

 

“Chris needs to learn to keep his fuckin’ mouth shut,” his voice raises a touch, black fury boiling dangerously close to a full-blown meltdown. He shoves away from the desk, fixing Chris with a nasty look, and Tina jumps to her feet in alarm as he starts edging past her, the instinct to stop him overriding her sense to be careful.

 

The lancing agony has her doubling over with a soft cry, clutching at her side, gasping for breath. Hands are on her shoulders, easing her back down into the chair, and she glimpses Gavin’s face in the mirage of blurry white pinching the corners of her vision. Chris is at her side, asking if she’s alright, and she bobs her head quickly. 

 

Gavin is distraught. “Ti, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

 

She captures his hand between hers, squeezing tightly. The bolts of pain are already subsiding, and she steadies her breaths.

 

“I’m worried about you, Gav,” Tina confides. “I don’t like seeing you this way. I’m sorry… things happened the way they did for you.”

 

Pain flashes through his dark grey gaze but he nods.

 

“Are you sure he isn’t coming back?” Chris interjects, and she tenses, expecting Gavin to blow. The fire has vanished from him, and he slumps a bit.

 

“Yeah. Well…” Gavin shrugs again. “It’s been weeks. If he was, it would’ve been by now. Wouldn’t he?”

 

“I don’t think Nines would abandon you,” she reasons. “It’s like… the two of you were _made_ for each other. He brought out the best in you, Gav. He really did. And I don’t think he’d want you to do this to yourself, as much as Chris and I don’t want it for you, either.”

 

“Gavin, I’ll inform Captain Fowler you’re going home,” Chris announces, patting his shoulder kindly, in a fatherly way. Tina reflects on how amazing he is with his own son, Damian. “You were falling asleep at your desk earlier. Go get some rest.”

 

A flicker of appreciation warms Gavin’s face, and he gathers his jacket and keys, wrinkling his nose as he catches a whiff of his jacket. “Fuckin’ hell, I need a shower, too.”

 

“And a shave,” Tina scratches her fingertips through his coarse beard. “You’re giving the ol’ Lieutenant a run for his money. How’s it been with him here again? I was hoping to catch him, too.”

 

“It’s like nothing really changed,” Gavin says, looking Tina over. She’s healthy and glowing, and her brightness is rubbing off on him a little. Going home to take a shower and sleep sounds like the best idea he’s had in literal months. “I’ll see you soon, Ti.”

 

“Bye, Gavin. Love you,” she shapes a cheesy heart with her fingers, and crosses the bullpen to Fowler’s office, as Gavin shrugs on his jacket and walks out the door.

 

 

 

 

 

Hanging his jacket on the hook by the door and dropping his keys with a jingling clank on the countertop, Gavin shuffles into the bathroom and closes the door, snapping on the light and looking in the mirror. His sallow, bearded face glares back at him and he bares his teeth, forming a hideous snarl backed by earnest disgust as he swings open the cabinet for the canister of shaving cream, a razor, and scissors small enough to trim the dense hair.

 

The sink is filled with a layer of coarse brown hairs as he snips cautiously around the tenderer skin of his lips, being careful not to cut himself. Bit by bit, he can see a familiar face coming through, until a straggly mess is all that’s left. Eyeing the longest sections of his overgrown hair, he clips that away too, brushing loose hairs from his shoulders and uncapping the shaving cream.

 

 _“Dashing through the snow…”_ he sing-mumbles to his Saint Nicholas-inspired portrait, he hums low in his throat, strips of pink flesh peeking through the white foam until only a few smears remain. Rinsing his razor and returning the items to the cabinet, he casts his clothes to the tile floor, stepping beneath the scalding spray with a sigh of pure relief. The pine-scented wash scrubs away the grimy residue collected on his skin, and he lingers a few minutes longer, mind wandering aimlessly without thinking too much about… well, what he _doesn’t_ want to think about.

 

Turning off the water (admitted a little reluctantly), he towels hastily and hunts down a clean shirt and boxers, roaming into the kitchen to toss a single-serve pizza in the oven. Dropping onto the couch to wait, he finds the remote stuffed between the couch cushions and switches to Channel 4 news.

 

_“…announces androids will have the right to claim legal citizenship as of the first of July. This will be the first bill passed by the Senate in favour of androids as full citizens of the United States of America. President Warren will address questions tomorrow morning…”_

“CyberLife sure as hell won’t like that,” Gavin mutters, changing the channel to an ocean documentary, amusing himself with his cat’s head swinging back and forth as the glittery scales of fish appear on camera. The oven’s timer _dings_ loudly, and he stands in the kitchen eating the pizza in ravenous bites, drinking chocolate milk straight from the carton. It’s not like anyone else is going to have some, and besides, he’s reminded of when he was a teenager and did the same thing – although it pissed his mom off to no end.

 

Some habits never change.

 

Leaving the television on mute for Boo to continue watching the fish, Gavin roams into his room and pushes aside the covers, contemplating getting in, when the cat can be heard scratching frantically at the wood. She manages to wriggle her way in, ears flat to either side of her skull.

 

“Did you see a shark?” he asks her, starting towards her to pick her up, when her tail bushes three times its regular size and she darts between his legs and beneath the bed.

 

Strange, she only does that when strangers come…

 

Gavin hears the muffled click of the handle bolt locking back into place, and his entire body goes on alert; snatching his spare gun from its corner beneath the bed, he goes to the bedroom door and eases it open a little more, peering out. The illuminating light of the television catches the frame of someone in the shadows of his apartment, and a dangerous combination of adrenaline mixes with anger.

 

Fuckin’ idiot made the wrong choice trespassing in _his_ home tonight.

 

Pushing the door all the way open, he sneaks out and edges his way closer, eyes tracking the movement in the dark. Gavin raises the gun.

 

The television screen suddenly lights up bright, a great white shark plunging up in a spray of seafoam against a bright sky and blue water, and a wordless noise escapes from Gavin’s mouth. The stranger whirls around in alarm, LED a brilliant vermillion.

 

The gun drops to the floor.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foundations:  
> "The supporting structure of a building. The word also denotes the basis or beginning of something (e.g. a relationship)."


End file.
